‘Thank You, Warden!’

More than four months have passed since I was released from jail, escorted to the airport, expelled from China and put on a plane for America. It has taken time for me to calm down, to fend off all the commotion and take stock of this experience, though I still have not entered the stage of recollection.

Actually, when I lift up my pen to describe this experience, I encounter a block: The trauma lingers, and an uncanny resistance to writing comes over me. I want to get far away from this nightmare, to let time do its work of dampening or even forgetting.

But there can be no forgetting; everything must be recalled. Otherwise, this time in jail will have been for nothing. Something tells me my failure to face this so far means I must face it ultimately. Only by having this unforgettable, enlightening brush with the penal system can I truly understand why so many people are in prison, all of them more wretched than I. There have been few to document the mental, physical anguish of this sad ordeal, especially the particulars, the thought-trains burned into the psyche, the self-analysis only a prisoner can know--the relentless analysis, the inner conversation, the obsessive thirsting for freedom.

A Chinese prison is a fearsome place, as all prisons in the world must surely be. My incarceration happened all too suddenly, since I had underestimated the price to be paid for publishing an independent literary journal in China. The contrast with my accustomed life of freedom was so great that it caught me totally unprepared. I am one for whom personal freedom is a precondition for survival. I am by no means a political stalwart: As I grow older, I find myself admiring heroes from afar, rather than following in their footsteps. I had not steeled myself to the thought of serving hard time in prison.

Late at night on Aug. 25, 2000, after transferring me from jail to the Public Security Sanitarium earlier that day, an official from Beijing Public Security suddenly informed me: I must board the next day’s China Airlines flight to America at 12:45 p.m. I objected, maintaining that freedom was what I wanted. There were still things I needed to take care of, and I had no wish to leave Beijing. If I were released, I wanted to decide for myself when I would leave the country. But the police insisted that I leave for America. I had no choice.

In the early morning light, from a police car headed toward the airport, I gazed at the ordinary residential alleys, the unpretentious citizens, the bustling morning markets, and I suddenly felt tears streaming down and my breath coming in gasps. How could I break down like this? It was hard to let go of the city I knew so well, that I loved passionately, these surroundings of my youth, this city full of warmth. Would I ever again be able to seclude myself there, or roam its maze of streets or lead my mad life or sometimes harbor a mood of resentment? I felt a strong presentiment that perhaps I could never return. I was being cast away. “For this is my Beijing; this is the last of Beijing for me.” This line of poetry, imprinted on my youthful memory, now came into my thoughts. It was a line written 33 years ago by Guo Lusheng, but now it sounded like a prophecy of my future.

In early October, I returned to the familiar yet strange city of Boston. At my parents’ insistence, I cut off all communication with them and my brother Huang Feng, so they could get on with their lives in Beijing. This was a cruel blow to me but a demand I had to accept: It was the only way to relieve my family of fear, harassment and possible re-incarceration. The fax my parents sent me was at once a command and a plea; its heartless tone held a hint of resignation, leaving me no choice but obedience:

“You have the protection and concern of the American government. We are only ordinary people, without backing or protection. We want to go on leading our lives in China. Now your younger brother is your hostage in China; every move you make in America will affect him, and even our survival here in China. Huang Feng is ‘on probation pending trial,’ so he can be hauled in at any time. The effect on his work has been disastrous. We aren’t doing much better ourselves. If you still have a conscience, if you haven’t forgotten the promise you made the last time we saw you, you will refrain from having any connections with us in the future.”

What crime had I committed? It was the crime of printing and publishing a literary humanistic journal. According to the criminal warrant of the Beijing Public Security Bureau and the Haidian District Sub-Bureau, I was detained for “illegally printing and publishing the foreign literary, humanistic periodical Tendency.” As for my brother Huang Feng, he was arrested six days after me on the “charge” of spreading news about my arrest. This happened simply because he told people on the outside about my arrest and detention, and after the Associated Press and The New York Times printed the news, he took phone calls at our house from my Tendency associates, from the media and from human-rights organizations, giving them answers about my situation. By arresting Huang Feng, the police tried to cut off the source of further reports in the Western media about my detention and the reasons behind it. Regrettably for them, the news was already out, causing strong international objections. Being in jail at the time, however, I had no idea this was happening.

How did my arrest happen? On Aug. 5, 2000, I went to see a friend in Shanghai, and on Aug. 11, I arrived back in Beijing. After doing some errands, I returned to my apartment in Heping Ward to wait for my landlord to sign closing papers with me. That afternoon the doorkeeper’s office at my building phoned the police to tell them I had returned. Before long, five smiling plainclothesmen from Beijing Public Security’s Deptartment One (the political surveillance department), along with some neighborhood policemen, accosted me on the first floor of the apartment building and forced me into a police Jeep. They conveyed me to a Haidian District substation near Beijing University.

On Aug. 12, after being searched and interrogated for 20 hours, I was taken to Qinghe Detention Center under the Haidian Sub-Bureau. Wearing only a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, I was stripped of my eyeglasses and shoes, then taken barefooted and blinking nearsightedly to be locked in Block 8, cell No. 1. I was required to learn the shouted stock phrases used by prisoners: “Thank you, Warden!” “If I may report, Sir?” “Huang Beiling of Block 8, cell 1 requests a hearing.” “Huang Beiling of Block 8, cell 1 requests access to the cell.”

The cell was a rectangle about 400 square feet; at one end were a squat-toilet and a sink, which were reachable by a narrow aisle. On one side was a wall, and facing it was a low sleeping platform. Eighteen to 25 persons were squeezed into this cell at any one time. All the functions of eating, drinking, excreting and sleeping were performed in this same space. When more than 20 people were crammed into the cell, it was impossible for everyone to sleep, even lying sideways. Therefore two teams of four people were picked, and each team pulled watch for half a night, wielding paper fans over the cell boss and senior inmates. The teams took turns sleeping.

All new inmates, not under special protection of a guard, were hazed by being forced to remain standing their whole first night; on the second night they also had to pull a night watch. Every day we did more than 10 hours of “floor sitting,” that is, sitting with backs straight, legs bent and arms around our knees, keeping our eyes fixed on the prison guidelines on the wall. This was called “reflecting on our crimes.” We were told to read the guidelines silently and memorize them. Worse than this, the cell boss tacitly approved and sometimes stirred up beatings, displays of contempt and constant insults to personal dignity.

Every meal in prison was the same: steamed buns and salted vegetable soup. Once a week, we got a lump of stewed fat pork. An old prisoner told me that after years of eating steamed buns, he vowed never to touch another bun when he got out. The prison warden ran a concession, selling expensive snacks to prisoners whose relatives deposited money into a special fund. No prisoner, however, dared to buy anything without letting the cell boss have his share. I was hazed mercilessly for my long hair. Normally, it should have been clipped the first day, but I was treated as a special case. When I stood at the sink to have ice-cold water poured over my body, all the cellmates stood and watched. They watched my every move because they could fantasize that I was a woman. After my shower they sometimes insisted that I stand with my face to the wall, with hair hanging down, so they could comment on how much I resembled a woman.

I was subjected to ridicule from my cellmates as a “foreigner,” “stupid jerk” and “literary man.” I had committed a literary crime, typical of my kind: the unmitigated “crime” of trying to publish freely. My cellmates, just like the police, viewed this as a political crime, a counterrevolutionary subversive crime. I consistently denied this, and my “slippery arguments” made the officials at my pre-hearing think I was both bull-headed and tricky.

Anyone who reduces the punitive violent treatment suffered for the sake of publishing literature in China to the category of adversarial politics is weakening the fragile voice of literature. State authority suppresses not only dissident political efforts, it also suppresses literary and artistic activities. According to the statement of a high-ranking Beijing Public Security official, if they wanted to handle my case quickly, they could send me immediately to a correctional farm for three years of labor reform without going through any legal procedures. If they decided to proceed by legal fiat, they could have the procurator’s office bring a case against me in court, and I could be sentenced to a prison term of five to 10 years. They called this the “severe approach.”

An official at my pre-hearing named Li, a jowly man with glowering eyes and black-framed glasses, whose bearing and expression were plainly thuggish, put it to me this way: “We can sentence you to 10 years. You grow your hair long and lead a single life, don’t you? After 10 years you’ll be a gray-haired old man. No woman will want you.” Judging from Public Security’s crude act of detaining my brother Huang Feng at the Qinghe Detention Center merely because he picked up the phone and truthfully answered questions from the media, it is clear the police were taking drastic measures to seal off knowledge of my whereabouts. They had already decided to punish me severely.

Prison could not change my inherent belief or dissuade me from my cause and commitment. But jail was a window into society for me. I encountered all shapes and sizes of people who were outside of my prior experience. During my 15 days in prison, I was rubbing shoulders with drug dealers, drug users, vagrant farmers, killers, thugs, brothel customers, batterers, suspected embezzlers, burglars, rapists and black market vendors of everything from music CDs to computer equipment. In the eyes of the other prisoners, my identity was suspicious because I alone held an American green card. They called me “Yankee” and regarded me as a political prisoner.

When reviewing my case, Public Security was surprised how strongly America negotiated on behalf of a writer who was jailed for publishing infractions. I am perhaps the first Chinese citizen to be expelled from China for being a writer. This means that I am now an exile in the most literal sense. For some people, going into exile means the beginning of a new life, but for me it is like walking into the valley of death. To a writer whose life is bound up with his motherland, who is committed to working for free speech in his own country, exile is also a form of punishment.

*

The great Russian poet Joseph Brodsky said that exile is a tragicomedy, but for me, it has been more tragic than comic. I feel as if the sky is open to me but the soil I sprang from is not. Over the last 10 years, I have gone back to China every chance I could, but now I do not have that chance. While I was in China, many friends urged me to flee. But I kept thinking of what Walter Benjamin said to friends who urged him to leave Paris as the Nazis were approaching. He said, “I can’t leave here now; there are positions that need to be defended.”

This is not only an intellectual’s responsibility, it is the responsibility of a human being. What have I been doing since being released and expelled? I am already wishing I could go back. I miss China, knowing how many important things there are to be done. But the international response to my imprisonment let me understand the invisible effect of a journal that publicizes and advocates the cause of free expression. Our journal has become important as a focal point for concern. I want this to be a new point of departure for our journal. I and my colleagues are seeking support from foundations to keep the journal going. We tried our best to publish in China, where expenses are low and where most of our readers are, but now we need more help to send copies of each issue into China. This is important because our journal provides a sanctuary of free expression for works by independent writers and intellectuals in China.

I am also planning to found a PEN Center for Chinese exiled writers. We hope that our chapter can learn to cooperate with other international writers’ organizations. We are preparing to approach the city of Boston with plans for Boston to serve as a sanctuary city for Chinese writers who have suffered persecution and suppression. I am also preparing two books for publication in English: my collection of essays and my collection of poems. The translation work is underway, and I believe I can find a publisher. I have recently published articles in the overseas Chinese media. I am also working on a personal memoir dealing with the underground cultural scene in China.

Aside from this, I am working to build partnerships between our journal and local universities. I am seeking a parent institution for our journal. I also keep involved with conferences and panels on current affairs in China. Looking back on the period of my imprisonment, I am grateful to the Beijing office of Associated Press for being first to let the outside world know about my arrest in mid-August. As I learned later, this news agency learned of my disappearance within 24 hours of my arrest. They immediately confirmed my detention, then promptly released a report. This report appeared in The New York Times on Aug. 13, taking up space no larger than a square of dried bean curd. A few days later, Susan Sontag remarked in her noteworthy essay “The Crime of Taking Ideas to China” in the Op-Ed section of the Aug. 19 New York Times: “[B]ut Bei Ling seemed too slight a figure to bring down the wrath of the Chinese state.”

I owe thanks to Sontag for her weeklong effort to organize an appeal: If not for her direct phone calls to Secretary of State Madeleine Albright and President Clinton, an ordinary Chinese citizen with literary inclinations like myself (American residency notwithstanding) would surely have been punished as a warning to others. As for my brother’s release, it was wholly due to the response from overseas. The powerful appeals from international organizations and friends led the U.S. State Department to negotiate with China’s Foreign Ministry. During the week preceding my brother’s release, the State Department made daily efforts to extricate him.

I can understand why my countrymen overseas hardly ever speak out. People have watched, read and heard so many sad incidents that numbness is setting in. Luckily there were influential organs of the media to speak for me. Western writers and literary contacts whom I greatly admire spoke out for me; human-rights organizations spoke for me; and my friend-in-adversity Meng Lang spoke for me. Some others who spoke for me were Arthur Miller, Nadine Gordimer, Czeslaw Milosz, Seamus Heaney and Homero Aridjis, who is chairman of PEN Center International. They raised their voices not just to save an individual writer but to defend the values of literature and the freedom to publish, which is a hallmark of civil society and a basic right of intellectuals.

I was fated to pay a price because of my actions. I am grateful to those mentioned above, not only for speaking out but also for their attachment to literature, their attachment to the continuation of a serious journal. For this I was put in prison, for this I went through physical pain and for this I was released.