Nineteen Days
Liao YiwuISSUE 189, SUMMER 2009
June 4, 1989
A massacre took place in the capital city of the People’s Republic of China. The size of it shocked the world. Nobody knows precisely how many innocent people lost their lives. The government put the number of “collateral deaths” at two hundred or less. But many Chinese believe that it was more like three thousand innocent students and residents who were slain.
I didn’t witness the killings in Tiananmen Square. I was home in Fuling, a small mountain town well known for its pickled and shredded turnips. When I heard the news, I was outraged. I composed an epic poem, “Massacre,” to commemorate the government’s brutality against its people. With the help of a visiting Canadian friend, I made a tape, chanting my poem into an old toothless tape recorder. My wife Axia was also present.
June 4, 1990
It was a sultry, gloomy day. I was locked up inside a detention center operated by the Chongqing Municipal Public Security Bureau. I had survived the initial blitz of constant interrogations, which had lasted twenty days. I was packed into a cell with several dozen common criminals. My head had gone bald on the top. Waves of lightning cut across the sky like giant saws. I muttered to myself: “Time flies. It’s been a year already.”
A detainee who had been assigned to clean the hallway came in and hastily slipped me a tiny piece of folded-up paper. I unfolded it. It was a note from Liu Daheng: “Bearded Liao, I’m hungry. Could you scrounge a wheat bun and pass it on to me? It would be even better if you could get me two cigarettes.” Liu was in my crew. They arrested us while we were making a movie about the Tiananmen massacre. I don’t remember what I was able to get for him to eat. I think it was half of a cold bun that I had saved.
June 4, 1991
I lay stuck between two death-row inmates. Their shackles clanked loudly each time they turned their bodies. All night long, I floated in and out of bad dreams.
It had been a bad year for prisoners. The flood in Anhui Province affected food supplies nationally. At the detention center in Chongqing, our food portions became smaller. Eventually, our daily meal was reduced to two pieces of sweet potato and some pumpkin or plain potato, which had been boiled to a gruel. We would close our eyes and stuff it into our throats. There was neither oil nor salt. The pumpkins were yellowish and the potatoes were white. Soon, the stuff would exit from the other end, undigested. We were hungry all the time. Two dozen detainees were crammed into a cell as small as thirty or forty feet square, so we didn’t have room to do anything else except sit side by side on a long wooden plank all day long. Our waists had thickened from malnutrition, as if we were corrupt government officials who had been wined and dined all the time. Each time we stood up, we wobbled, our legs shaking.
June 4, 1992
I lay half awake and half asleep, still stuck between two death-row inmates. I had gotten used to them. No matter how frequently they turned around with their clanking shackles, I slept as soundly as a pig.
Several inmates had been released earlier for good behavior. My charges had been reduced. I was no longer charged with organizing a large-scale counterrevolutionary group. My crimes had been changed to “engaging in individual counterrevolutionary activities,” and the government had sentenced me to four years in jail. If I could deduct the time I had already served at the detention center, freedom seemed to be not too far away.
I had attempted two suicides. The guards had punished me many times by tying both of my hands behind my back and leaving me in a dark cell for as long as twenty-three consecutive days. They prodded me with their electric batons. They also tortured me by poking my asshole with their batons while kicking and punching me. I was constantly on edge as death-row inmates were taken away to the execution ground. I looked like a ghost.
June 4, 1993
I was transferred from the No. 2 Sichuan Provincial Prison in the suburbs of Chongqing. I will serve out the rest of my sentence at the No. 3 Prison in Dazu County, in northern Sichuan Province. Tonight, a dozen convicted counterrevolutionaries gathered spontaneously in the courtyard, squatting down and silently watching the sky like those fabled frogs stuck at the bottom of a deep well.
I was holding a flute in my hand. The crowd surrounded me, asking me to play a tune. I was still an amateur, though, and hadn’t yet mastered the instrument. I became really nervous in front of the crowd and played out a string of dissonant notes.
Li Bifeng, an inmate, patted me on my shoulder and said: “Old Liao, I’m glad that you will be released soon.” Another inmate, Pu Yong, who died soon after his release, interrupted us: “We will all be released soon. I bet you that on the fifth anniversary, the verdict will be overturned and all of us, no matter what type of sentences we are serving, will be released.”
June 4, 1994
I was a free man. I was released three months earlier for what the prison authorities called “good behavior.”
My wife, Axia, had divorced me, and left with our child. Police revoked my registration card in Fuling. I moved in with my ailing parents in Chengdu. Beginning the night of June 3, police appeared in front of our house and took turns guarding me. They didn’t leave until June 5.
In the afternoon, my new girlfriend, Song Yu, traveled all the way from Mianyang city to spend time with me on that special day. A student activist and candidate member of the Communist Party, she had turned eighteen that year. Her bold visit shocked the police stationed outside the house, but they let her in. That evening, we lit a candle and paid tribute to the victims of Tiananmen. Then we immersed ourselves in the sweetness of our newly found love.
When the student protest began in 1989, Song Yu was only thirteen. She grew up in a small town and said she couldn’t grasp the full meaning of my life story. But seeing that I have gone through so much suffering, she said she would love me and accompany me through the rest of my life.
June 4, 1995
I spent the anniversary inside a guest house affiliated with the Chengdu Municipal Public Security Bureau. Several weeks before, I had participated in several petition drives initiated by my friend, Liu Xiaobo, a writer in Beijing. He had circulated a petition letter entitled “Draw Lessons from the Blood.” All the signers had been snatched up by police. Some were under house arrest. I was invited to stay at the guest house. Despite the fact that I was never considered a VIP dissident, they had me share a room with two policemen. It was comical: One was fat and the other was lanky and tall. The fat one slept quietly while the thin one snored thunderously all night long.
June 4, 1996
The police temporarily expelled Liu Xiaobo and his wife Liu Xia from Beijing for fear that they might talk with foreign reporters or stir up trouble during the anniversary. Liu sought refuge in Chengdu, and we spent the day together. Liu bought some nice clothes for Song Yu, now the new wife of this starving writer. He said it was his first time buying clothes for a friend’s wife. Seeing how pretty and wonderful Song Yu was, he began to worry that this idiot called Liao Yiwu wouldn’t be able to keep her for long. Not long afterward, Liu was arrested and put in jail again.
June 4, 1997
I was struggling to find a job to support myself. On that day, a policewoman invited me to have tea at a local teahouse. She was there to monitor me, making sure that I didn’t cause any trouble on the anniversary. During our awkward conversation, I learned that she and I happened to have been born on the same day of the same month of the same year.
June 4, 1998
I was under house arrest again. I had written an open letter to President Bill Clinton, protesting his visit to China during the memorial month of June. At least the house arrest forced me to keep up with my writing. I had no choice: there wasn’t any other way to occupy myself.
June 4, 1999
I accepted an interview request from Radio Free Asia, which is based in Washington, DC, and read my poem “Massacre” on the air.
June 4, 2000
I cannot recall where I was and what I was doing.
June 4, 2001
Where was I? Again, I don’t remember.
June 4, 2002
I spent most of my day inside an intensive-care unit taking care of my father, who was dying of lung cancer. A school teacher all his life, he was branded a counterrevolutionary during the Cultural Revolution. He filed for divorce to protect his children. Later, he and my mother moved back in together.
The previous week, I recorded a new version of “Massacre,” which was distributed underground. I was very busy and my father’s condition drove me to the point of despair. I didn’t even realize it was the anniversary. Inside the oncology department, people died and were wheeled out every couple of days. The deaths occurred more frequently at night. A cart from the morgue would rise slowly to the top floor through a special elevator, gliding quietly through the corridor and then into the ICU. The loud, grief-stricken screams, like sudden explosions of deeply buried landmines, echoed in the long corridor. I would immediately shut the door and hold my father’s hands, which were hanging limp by the bedside. I felt so helpless.
June 4, 2003
I was agonized with pain. My wife Song Yu and I were on the verge of breaking up. She said she could no longer handle my vagabond life. She was tired and craved a normal, secure life. After ten years, she was ending our relationship. After leaving me a letter at home, she went into hiding.
I went into exile in a small town in the southwestern province of Yunnan. I spent the evening with a new girlfriend at a bar where a group of out-of-town drunkards were hanging out. Out of the blue, a stranger in the crowd yelled: “Does anyone know what day it is?” People shook their heads. One person said: “Who gives a fuck what day it is. Just enjoy the day!” I felt as though an electric shock had singed my scalp. I blurted out: “It’s June 4.” Everybody looked at me strangely. My new girlfriend, under the influence of beer, said: “Liao was a well-known poet in the eighties. He wrote a wonderful poem called ‘Massacre.’” Everybody applauded me, pouring more beer in my mug and urging me to read my poem. I went on the stage and jumped up and down, chanting and performing the poem. I hadn’t realized that this old, faded poem could still bring so many people to tears.
June 4, 2005
I was traveling in Yunnan, wandering around and conducting interviews with people for a series of books about victims of injustice in China.
June 4, 2006
I was in Yunnan, packing for my trip to Hunan Province, trying to track down Yu Zhijian, who was arrested in 1989 for tossing eggs filled with paint at the Chairman’s portrait in Tiananmen Square.
June 4, 2007
During the past two weeks, my mother contacted me repeatedly, urging me to come back to Chengdu and help her move back into our old house. She had left our house the year my father died. After living in different places, she was eager to come back. I obliged. After we finished unpacking, I sat in my father’s room. Nothing had changed. I sat in my father’s old chair, staring at a wall while my mother was nagging and yelling in the kitchen. My mind reeled. I felt as though I had reached old age. Aside from the fact that I didn’t smoke, I couldn’t tell the difference between me and my father. Who was it that occupied this body of mine, me or my father?
My friend Liu Xiaobo e-mailed me, “ordering” me to write an article to commemorate the eighteenth anniversary of Tiananmen. I declined, with the lame excuse that my surroundings weren’t suitable for any kind of creative effort. In reality, I lacked the motivation, and the courage. But Liu wouldn’t let me off the hook that easily. He e-mailed me back right away: “How dare you?”
I had to come up with something. But my innocence and passion had slowly been worn away. Memories of what had happened to me were gradually fading. People had become more jaded and cynical, many taking refuge in their comfortable nests. A drunkard once muttered to me at a bar: “The dead are silent and the living struggle with futility.”
June 4, 2008
I continued to interview victims of the May 12 earthquake that hitWenchuan County, about seventy kilometers away from Chengdu. About sixty-nine thousand people were killed, and the survivors were struggling. The only thing I could do was record the survivors’ stories, their pains, frustrations, and anger. In the morning, I talked with a group of victims who had managed to leave the mountainous region of Qingcheng and had come to Chengdu. They had set up tents behind the city’s western gate. They looked weary and distracted. In the afternoon, two friends mentioned the anniversary and I couldn’t help sighing: Nineteen years!
Three years after the massacre, I was in jail. Five years later, police were stationed in front of my house. Seven years later, there were sporadic memorial activities organized by individuals or small groups—petition letters, candlelight vigils, the burning of paper money to appease the dead, poetry readings, and hunger strikes. On the tenth anniversary, I repeated my poem “Massacre” for an overseas radio station by chanting and yelling into my telephone receiver. Then things started to change for me. I don’t want to be like a second-class actor, waiting for this special occasion year after year so I can summon all my strength and put on full costume for a show. I’m getting old and my passion is fading.
I remembered the story of Sun Jinxuan, a poet who died of lung cancer in late 2002. On June 4 that year, he woke up with pain. He called a dozen of his friends, most of whom were poets, writers, and celebrities. The first thing he asked on the phone was: “Do you know what day it is?” The majority of them answered: “It is Duanwu Festival, the time when people eat sticky rice wrapped up in bamboo leaves.” Some thought Sun was losing his memory, and explained that the Duanwu Festival was meant to commemorate a patriotic poet named Qu Yuan. Believe it or not, I was the only one who correctly pointed out the anniversary. Sun felt embarrassed and outraged by the answers of his friends. He yelled loudly on the phone, announcing that he intended to stage a one-person demonstration on the street. His slogan would be: “Killings, killings. No memories, no memories.” Since he was at the very end of his life and was too sick to even get up from his bed, he ordered me to show up at his hospital in thirty minutes to help him with his last wish. I hesitated for a moment and then hung up the phone. What if he dropped dead on the street? I would be blamed for murdering him, wouldn’t I?
Postscript: June 4, 2009
The police had started to remind me of the anniversary in May. They came to see me frequently, telling me to be “low-key” and not to do anything subversive. On the afternoon of June 1, public security officers invited me to their office and interrogated me. They had heard that I had written an article called “Nineteen Days.” They wanted to know what my motives were.
—Translated from Chinese by Wenguang Huang
埃郎根據德新社報導,今年7月流亡德國的中國異議人士、詩人廖亦武計劃寫作新書,以文學形式剖析1989年北京“六四”大屠殺事件。這位現年53歲的作家上週六(8月27日)晚間在埃郎根(Erlangen)詩人節上透露,在這一新作品中將包括有關證人和罹難者的報告,他這次在行李中有20名親歷了當年血腥屠殺事件的當事人的陳訴紀錄稿,帶入了德國。廖亦武指控中國政府,系統性地壓制對“六四”的民族記憶,“人們被強迫忘卻”。廖亦武對大約400名聽眾表示,許多同胞雖然對當局的打壓憤憤不平,但因大屠殺導致的震撼,大眾中鮮少出現抵抗行為。曾入獄多年的廖亦武於今年7月轉道越南來到德國。
中國短訊 | 08.08.2011 | 17:00 UTC 廖亦武新書進入《明鏡週刊》暢銷榜 中國作家廖亦武新書《一首歌與一百首歌》(原《證詞》德文版)自7月21日出版以來,首次進入德國《明鏡週刊》的暢銷書榜,暫列第17位。暢銷書榜還特別為這本書和作者進行簡單的介紹,告知讀者這位中國的作家和詩人目前正居住在德國的柏林,這本書記錄了他的獄中經歷。德國之聲向廖亦武本人證實,不到二十天的時間,《一首歌與一百首歌》在德國已經售出21000多本。目前他正著手另外一本關於"六四事件"受難者的新書,他說《一首歌與一百首歌》是個人記憶,而下一本書將代表群體記憶。 |
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現實太震撼,虛構太不值 廖亦武 唯有見證!◎中國時報開卷/林欣誼100年8月6日 ------------------------------------------------- |
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| 「在中國,現實每每超出想像,所以我們不再虛構,我們只是一筆一劃地實錄。」53歲的中國作家廖亦武,斬釘截鐵地說。近20年來,他完成了《中國底層訪談錄》(麥田,台灣更名為《底層生活訪談錄》)、《中國冤案錄》(勞改基金會)、《地震瘋人院:四川大地震記事》(允晨)等500多萬字的見證文學(台灣稱「報導文學」),以優美文筆挖掘黑暗內幕,成為中國最具代表性的底層作家。 然而,他不是本來就屬於底層。廖亦武原為先鋒派詩人,1989年六四天安門事件後,他因製作《大屠殺》長詩配樂朗誦錄音帶、拍攝詩歌電影《安魂》,被判入獄4年。六四和監獄扭轉了他的一生,出獄後他放棄寫詩,決定以他親歷、親訪現實所鑄成的文字,作為歷史的證人。
突破禁令 抵達柏林 出獄後20年來,廖亦武數度被逮捕抄家,13次被阻止出國訪問,除了《中國底層訪談錄》曾以化名出版,他無法在中國發表任何一個字,僅地下版本流傳。近年,他逐漸在西方建立聲名,作品有英、法、日、義、德等版本,曾獲美國赫爾曼/哈米特寫作獎、澳洲推動中國進步獎等。 2009年以來,他又三度被禁止出國參與作家活動,直到一個月前,才終於從雲南離境,經越南、波蘭,於7月6日抵達德國柏林。這是他這輩子首度出國。 他的新書《六四‧我的證詞》(允晨)德文版及中文版,剛同步在德國、台灣出版,抵德一個月以來,廖亦武沒有一天停下採訪,接下來還得馬不停蹄到美國、澳洲,暫訂明年1月訪台。歷經西方媒體的大肆報導,他表示現在面對西方記者不用再解釋什麼,「在發表會上,德國讀者直接和我討論細節,因為他們經歷過東德納粹時期,這本書像是喚醒他們的記憶。」
六四後 和平演變夢碎 《六四‧我的證詞》是他的獄中自傳,文字直接赤裸,例如在他還處於詩歌創作顛峰時,即揭露「價值崩潰的年代,詩人們在比賽打旗稱派的同時,還比賽著搞女人的數量,某全國知名的先鋒詩歌團體其實是一個烏煙瘴氣的淫窩,野合,群交,換妻的把戲早已玩膩。」 然後是六四、槍響、大屠殺,他與朋友們窩居著錄製帶子,接著罪名扣下來,獄中他寫看守所的死囚們發誓要在黃泉路上作兄弟,寫他被獄卒捅電棒羞辱後撞牆自殺,滿紙滿頁驚心動魄。 他認為這本書是中國第一部關於六四的個人「證詞」,並定義六四為中國劃下了分界線,「正是這個屠殺行為,把中國人和平演變的夢想給破滅了,有人坐牢、有人逃亡,剩下的只有閉嘴。從此大家注意力轉移,全力搞經濟,只能追求物質追求錢。」 經過獄中的折磨,20年來沒呼吸過一口自由的空氣,廖亦武很可以憤世嫉俗,但他沒有,他只是更埋頭於書桌、於筆墨、於比泥土還要低的底層。但是,出獄後居無定所,兩度離婚,生活被如此摧毀,他不曾感到絕望嗎?為什麼還要寫作?廖亦武似乎不怎麼想回答,好像從來沒想過這些問題,他說:「幹這行的還是相信天意吧,總有一天會有結果,吃苦受罪不要緊,但一定要有個紀錄,為死去的、坐牢的人留下紀錄。」他來不及想別的,就「牢記我是一個記憶工作者」。
當今中國 首要是見證 他強調在當今的中國,首要的是見證,「我從來沒從中國任何一個作家筆下,看到比現實還要震撼人心的東西,作家的虛構不值一提。」他舉了一例,成都的街景一角,城管要拆遷房子了,房主就站在樓頂上,往身上澆汽油,嚷嚷:「我要自焚!」城管站在樓的下面等著,後來看他打火機遲遲無法點燃,就叫:「你不是要自焚嗎?膽小鬼!」於是,這個人就把自己給點燃了。 他淡淡說一句:「我沒看到過哪個作家寫的小說,比這個更殘酷。」 他自稱「謀生能力挺強」,在獄中學會吹洞簫,出獄後同時是個音樂創作人,出過幾片地下CD,工作餘下的時間就和地方上的邊緣人,喝喝酒聊聊天,搞一點音樂。「現在我的書還能一本一本出、一本一本被翻譯,比起許多人一輩子都被毀了,說的話也沒人聽,我的運氣算好的。」 離開了中國,他還沒決定是否長期流亡國外,但電腦裡的採訪材料,包括對六四大屠殺受難者的訪談,已累積數十萬字,讓他「寫都寫不過來。」把眼光和筆放在當下,關於中國的未來?廖亦武笑笑說:「我不是預言家,頂多只有《周易》和三個銅錢為自己卜卦而已,我想,從現在一直做,有一天未來就會來。」 |
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廖亦武,反抗黨天下統治的現代箕子! ◎余英時 ------------------------------------------------- 關於廖亦武其人其事,我最早的認識是從我的朋友康正果口中得到的。正果二○○○年到南京參加學術會議和二○○七年去西安探望母親,均與家住成都的廖亦武取得聯繫,並且不辭遠道探望。通過正果的介紹,我對於當代中國這位異人早已獲得了深刻的印象。後來不斷讀到有關他的報導,也偶爾接觸到他的詩文,他的獨特的形象在我心中也越來越清晰了。 但是廖亦武最近引起我的關注則由於今年(二○一○)三月《紐約時報》上一篇醒目的專訊。報上的標題說:「一位中國作家第十三次被阻止出國訪問」。細讀之下,我才發現這位「中國作家」便是廖亦武。原來今年三月德國科隆的文學節,他應邀參加,並將誦讀他的最新作品,但在最後一分鐘,他竟在成都機場被公安人員從飛機上「請」了下來。《紐約時報》的記者在專訊中特別強調:廖亦武遭受到禁止出國的待遇先後已經十三次了。 無獨有偶,繼廖亦武之後,另一位著名學者崔衛平也在三月下旬被禁赴美。《紐約時報》對這件事也很重視,作了專訪報告,以顯著的版面刊出。崔衛平是北京電影學院的教授,一向以學術研究和政治、社會評論互相結合,也彼此支援,捷克哈維爾(Vaclav Havel)的思想進入中國,她的貢獻甚大。今年她接受了哈佛大學和美國亞洲學會的雙重邀請,先到哈佛講演,再去費城參加討論會。但是在啟程前兩天,學校當局突然取消了她的出國假期。不用說,這當然是出於黨委的授意。但同一時期之內,也同時得到哈佛和亞洲協會雙重邀請的汪暉則順利出境,暢通無阻,對照之下,黨天下的意圖更是無所遁形了。《紐約時報》在新聞分析中也把崔衛平事件和廖亦武案聯繫在一起,並指出中共一向以禁止外訪為懲罰不聽話的人的一個重要手段。 ……more |
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【關於本書】中國官方三次抄走,阻撓出版的驚世鉅作 德國版由德國菲舍爾出版社(S.Fischer)同步發行 廖亦武是作品被嚴禁最多的中國作家之一,廖的同胞多年來都無法接觸到他劃時代的作品。——魯西迪 作者把我帶進一個生平未嘗夢見過的世界,處處是奇峰突起。——余英時 懷著幾近絕跡的虔誠向你說聲:謝謝啦,我的廖禿頭!——劉曉波 他在向歷史交出證詞的過程中,所重新找回的是曾被專制鐵蹄踏為泥塵的尊嚴。——王力雄 語言是受難者的庇護所,是人類良知的最高法庭。把一樁罪行如實地記錄或表述,那不但是對罪行的起訴,而且也就是對罪行的判決。——胡平 後毛時代的「中國證詞」,隆重獻聲! 一九九五年十月十日,公安突襲我在成都的住所,搜繳了這卷已近尾聲的《六•四•我的證詞》手稿,並宣佈依法對我實行監視居住廿天。絕境之下,我只得重寫此書,耗時達三年。 而在之前的一九九○年三月十六日至十九日,由於此書所追憶的案件,公安三次查抄我在涪陵和重慶的住所,搜繳了我一九八○年代創作的全部手稿,約一百五十萬字;之後的一九九八年九月、一九九九年二月、二○○二年十二月,公安先後在北京、江油、成都等地突擊拘禁並搜查我,奪走《中國底層訪談錄》、《中國冤案錄》及各類原稿約一百萬字。 每次大禍臨頭,我都懷著索忍尼辛在《古拉格群島》被克格勃(KGB〉抄去時的同樣想法:「立即發表!」 但是,時代變了,我只能像隻老鼠,多掘洞穴,把劫後餘生的文字藏得更深更遠…… |