ahead, but separated from the
others now, with two native Chinese between him and the window, he allowed his
mind to wander a little from the discipline he’d imposed upon it. He already
knew how tough his assignment was going to be, and how the rescue of X—if it
could be accomplished—was only the beginning of it. It brought a curious
feeling to know so much intellectually about China and to apply this knowledge
on arrival to the country’s reality: it felt positively schizophrenic, for
instance, to be listening with half his mind to the conversation between the
two Chinese next to him, to understand every word they said yet pretend that he
didn’t.
In Guangzhou he’d been sorely tempted to
buy a newspaper, a copy of Zhong Guo Qing Nian Bao —the China Youth
Daily —which he was accustomed to reading weeks late, in America . This
he had resisted, allowing himself only a glance at its headlines. The two men
on his right were discussing production figures. They were both foremen in a
factory returning home to Xian after a meeting of cadres in Guangzhou . He was curious about them. They
were in their fifties; one had mentioned that he was born in Nanjing ,
while the other came from a village outside Beijing .
To live now in Xian, so far away, he thought, it would have been shang-shan-xia-xiang that wrenched them from their native towns and families, or what was called ”up
to the mountains and down to the villages/’ that great experiment of Mao’s that
sent intellectuals into the country to dig wells and plow fields, and peasants
out of the villages to be trained and educated. He understood the need; there
were too many people in China ’s
cities, and it was vital to spread them out, except that usually only the
peasants—the jie ho —were ever returned to their native villages. The
educated young people, the chi-shi qingnian —found themselves banished
forever to the countryside. He wondered how he would feel if, upon
graduating from college, he were to be sent off to a remote Inner Mongolian
commune, for instance, to be tu bao zi, a hick— literally a clod of
earth—for the rest of his life. It had been one of the most astonishing
leveling experiments in modern history, the attempt to reeducate nearly a
billion people in the ”correct” ideological way to think, as against an
incorrect way... the turning over of one’s heart and mind to the Motherland,
the achievement of absolute trust in the parent-state. Work without laying
down conditions. Work without expecting reward. It is the work that counts, not
the person. What helps our reform we should talk about abundantly, what is bad
for reform we should not talk about at all. Education Through Labor. Dui
shi, bi dui ren— it is the mistake we are after, not the man. Be grateful to
the state by working with enthusiasm, without thinking of yourself.
Except that for X it was not education through labor, but reform through
labor, and what would Wang be like after his years in a reform camp? To survive
he would have learned humility through self-criticism and confession; he would
have been taught over and over that he must selflessly work for the greater
whole, because whatever changes had occurred since Mao’s death it was doubtful
that they would easily reach a labor camp in a remote province. If by now Wang
had not turned into a model prisoner, thinking ”correct” ideological thoughts,
he could just as easily have given up hope and have become a shell of a man.
Would he even consent to leave, to escape?
Would he even find Wang? And if he found the camp, would he be able to
recognize him? What if he had been altered beyond recognition? From some
ancient file there had arrived that single blown-up photograph of a younger
Wang... Comrade Wang, engineer, greeting volunteer workers for our
Motherland’s defenses as they arrive in the north from villages and cities all
over our country to joyously give of their labor. There had been no date on
the photo,
others now, with two native Chinese between him and the window, he allowed his
mind to wander a little from the discipline he’d imposed upon it. He already
knew how tough his assignment was going to be, and how the rescue of X—if it
could be accomplished—was only the beginning of it. It brought a curious
feeling to know so much intellectually about China and to apply this knowledge
on arrival to the country’s reality: it felt positively schizophrenic, for
instance, to be listening with half his mind to the conversation between the
two Chinese next to him, to understand every word they said yet pretend that he
didn’t.
In Guangzhou he’d been sorely tempted to
buy a newspaper, a copy of Zhong Guo Qing Nian Bao —the China Youth
Daily —which he was accustomed to reading weeks late, in America . This
he had resisted, allowing himself only a glance at its headlines. The two men
on his right were discussing production figures. They were both foremen in a
factory returning home to Xian after a meeting of cadres in Guangzhou . He was curious about them. They
were in their fifties; one had mentioned that he was born in Nanjing ,
while the other came from a village outside Beijing .
To live now in Xian, so far away, he thought, it would have been shang-shan-xia-xiang that wrenched them from their native towns and families, or what was called ”up
to the mountains and down to the villages/’ that great experiment of Mao’s that
sent intellectuals into the country to dig wells and plow fields, and peasants
out of the villages to be trained and educated. He understood the need; there
were too many people in China ’s
cities, and it was vital to spread them out, except that usually only the
peasants—the jie ho —were ever returned to their native villages. The
educated young people, the chi-shi qingnian —found themselves banished
forever to the countryside. He wondered how he would feel if, upon
graduating from college, he were to be sent off to a remote Inner Mongolian
commune, for instance, to be tu bao zi, a hick— literally a clod of
earth—for the rest of his life. It had been one of the most astonishing
leveling experiments in modern history, the attempt to reeducate nearly a
billion people in the ”correct” ideological way to think, as against an
incorrect way... the turning over of one’s heart and mind to the Motherland,
the achievement of absolute trust in the parent-state. Work without laying
down conditions. Work without expecting reward. It is the work that counts, not
the person. What helps our reform we should talk about abundantly, what is bad
for reform we should not talk about at all. Education Through Labor. Dui
shi, bi dui ren— it is the mistake we are after, not the man. Be grateful to
the state by working with enthusiasm, without thinking of yourself.
Except that for X it was not education through labor, but reform through
labor, and what would Wang be like after his years in a reform camp? To survive
he would have learned humility through self-criticism and confession; he would
have been taught over and over that he must selflessly work for the greater
whole, because whatever changes had occurred since Mao’s death it was doubtful
that they would easily reach a labor camp in a remote province. If by now Wang
had not turned into a model prisoner, thinking ”correct” ideological thoughts,
he could just as easily have given up hope and have become a shell of a man.
Would he even consent to leave, to escape?
Would he even find Wang? And if he found the camp, would he be able to
recognize him? What if he had been altered beyond recognition? From some
ancient file there had arrived that single blown-up photograph of a younger
Wang... Comrade Wang, engineer, greeting volunteer workers for our
Motherland’s defenses as they arrive in the north from villages and cities all
over our country to joyously give of their labor. There had been no date on
the photo,
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