Hello all, I hope you have been well and I wish I could say the same for myself.
I am refraining from being pessimistic in this moment but as it stands I do not
feel too good. This has nothing to do with my health or the health of anyone in
my family. Although we're all physically well, what happened left me shocked and
unable to process everything. Due to the sensitivity of this subject I won’t
object if the mods deem it safer for the community to lock this post. If you
weren’t aware already I had mentioned a few days prior that I made a visit to
Xinjiang’s capital Ürümqi to meet with some family members who have been
residing there for some years now. We left on Sunday and took a six hour train
ride to the capital, where I met my cousins who I hadn't seen in around 5 years
which was really nice. Although my aunt and uncle don't consider themselves
political, they share the usual anti-colonial sentiments against the US and have
more of an understanding of geopolitics than the average American does. but this
time around was somewhat different to what I am used to. There seems to be a
general uneasiness surrounding the genocide in Gaza, with many people here upset
about a perceived lack of response from China. My aunt and cousins believe that
China should have cut relations with Israel from the start, while I understood
why China had to take a more pragmatic position. It wasn’t a debate at all, just
a discussion, at least until the discussion took a sharp turn and their position
became harder to accept. They claimed that there are internment camps within
Xinjiang and that a family friend has a family member who spent time in one. I
objected immediately and put my foot down, telling them that this friend was
obviously sharing propaganda they had either gathered online. Xinjiang is no
doubt a target for the CIA and I assumed that they were either a fed or
parroting fed talking points. My aunt told me how two of her friend’s sons were
detained by police, with one of them still incarcerated and the other suffering
from PTSD. All of this apparently happened because of some social media posts
they made supporting Hamas and the Houthis. My aunt then proposed that I should
meet this family, as they didn't live too far away from where we were staying. I
accepted; the whole point of this trip, besides meeting my family and exploring
Xinjiang, was to understand the culture. China is extremely diverse and this
diversity isn’t explored in the western sphere due to the sinophobic nature and
propaganda that westerners are bombarded with online. The west wants to paint us
as drones, moving in rank and file, but obviously this is false. Like any other
area in the world where diversity flourishes, you see that present in China,
maybe moreso than other parts of the world that are celebrated for their
diversity, like New York, for example. It is also my goal as a leftist to try
and understand the way people view the world and try to amend the “broken” parts
as best as I can, not in a way that is intrusive or dismissive of their
experience, but by maintaining respect and having a thorough discussion. Nobody
is immune to propaganda, myself included. After dinner, I spoke to my partner
about meeting the family. I felt bad about changing our plans abruptly but I
felt like this was an important opportunity. They agreed that it was a good
idea, so off we went. During the train and bus ride, I found myself appreciating
the reliable public transport as well as Xinjiang’s culture of maintaining
bonds; tight-knit relationships are something the people of Xinjiang pride
themselves on. This solidarity was reinvigorating to me as customs differ
between Xinjiang and my home province. Again, if only people in the west
understood the array of cultures that exist within China... When we arrived at
their apartment it was around eight in the evening. The woman who opened to door
for us was the one my aunt spoke of. She held the door partially open which
obscured half of her face in shadow. With tired eyes and a look of absence she
didn’t say anything. Although she was expecting us, I had assumed maybe she
forgot. I asked to come in and she absentmindedly said “One moment, forgive me,
just a moment.” Although we didn’t mind waiting for however long she needed to
prepare for guests, I felt like I was intruding on her peace coming here. At
this point I felt like I had made the wrong choice coming here. About a minute
later she opened the door and let us in. We took our shoes off and she thanked
us, offering to give us some slippers to wear. I wish my apartment looked as
vibrant as hers did, elaborately designed carpets hung on the walls, the designs
were spectacular and I was in a deep awe by them. I wanted to observe closer to
get a better look at the carpets, but was interrupted by her invitation to wash
my hands before dinner. I felt an immediate connection to her, almost like she
was my own family. I understand now the ways of Xinjiang, the cultural
collaboration between souls and how those bonds intertwine like the fabrics
hanging on the walls, to make up a beauty that can’t be found anywhere else in
the world. It was unique to this place.
Entering the kitchen to wash our hands, she walked in with us and opened the pot
of rice she had been preparing. Before eating, she said “I apologize, I hope
there is enough for us all.” I said she needn’t worry, letting her know that if
there wasn’t enough food we would do without, but she objected sternly. “You
must,” she said, as she removed the lid. She had made a rice dish named 抓饭 which
translates to “grab rice” in English, as it is typically eaten with one's hands.
She guided to us to a small table and placed dishes in front of me and my
partner, then bringing over the pot of rice from the kitchen. Mixing the rice
with a metal spoon, she scraped the bottom of the pot. While serving us, she
explained: “All the flavor rests at the bottom. The crunchiness also adds
texture.” We were both starving after only eating small snacks on the train so
we were running low on calories, but I had faith that the dish and ensuing
conversation would not only satisfy our hunger, ease our anxieties about what we
had heard regarding the alleged open-air prisons. With each bite I felt more
embraced by Xinjiang and its culture. Here I was, half an hour after initially
worrying about imposing on her, now sitting and eating with her like family.
After finishing our meals, she brought in a teapot and served us a fragrant tea
that I wish I had remembered to ask about. I assume it was a black tea but it
had a similar aromatic profile to chai which confused me. She brought the
porcelain cup to her nose and breathed in with her eyes closed. She held in a
breath, and then let out a deep exhale. I recognized this as a form of releasing
anxiety. Opening her eyes and then staring into mine, she eased into herself and
said “Your aunt told me you were wondering what happened to my sons.” I nodded,
mentioning what she said about how her sons had experienced some hardships
recently. She looked away and nodded. With a slight smile she looked at me and
said “She also said you had your own opinions on the genocide.” At that point I
realized my aunt had communicated my skepticism to her. “I have my own opinion
but I would like to hear what you have to tell me if you don't mind.” Still
staring at me, she asked, “What do you think happened to them?” I told her that
my assumptions were as follows: the son posted something online that they
shouldn’t have, they got detained and were let go within the same month. After
taking a sip of tea, the woman looked upwards for a moment and said “I would
like you to listen to my story before passing judgement.” A frown appeared on
her face and she swallowed, trying her best to hold back tears. I refilled her
tea cup and she nodded, thanking me. With both hands she turned the cup
clockwise and then anticlockwise. With her gaze focused on the cup, she began to
speak again. “About a year ago they took my son and imprisoned him. Three men in
police uniform came to the door and asked me ‘Where is (son’s name)?’ When I
couldn’t answer, they let themselves in and searched my apartment, asking
repeatedly where he was. I still couldn’t answer. They went upstairs, found
(son’s name), and proceeded to pull him out of his room. He was in a state of
panic but from his perspective he saw me with the men and so he cursed me and
accused me of bringing them here. I couldn’t deny it. I think he still blames me
to this day.” A tear fell from her eye and left a mark next to her tea cup. I
could see she was reliving this story as she was telling it. I wondered how many
times she's put herself through this. Was that the first time she recollected
these repressed memories or was it a daily routine for her? I felt a deep pain
in my chest and swallowed back tears. “Even now I don’t think my son would
acknowledge any sort of apology. He's changed. Sometimes I hope he's silent
because all he has is hate in his heart for me. At least if this were the case,
there would be some hope for him. That's what I want, but part of me knows...”
She swallowed but the tears were flowing anyway. “My son is gone.” I apologized
for her son’s condition but I also wanted to understand what exactly had
occurred here. It was my assumption that maybe he was beaten in prison by
another inmate so I asked her If this was the case. She shook her head, saying
“He said the other inmates are the only thing that kept him going... He
deteriorated over time. He wouldn’t say much at all; the only time he mentioned
anything about his stay, he said that he had seen things, heard things.” She
looked over at my partner and smiled. “He was sat there, where you are now.” Her
smile faded slowly, “He told me the guards kept him imprisoned, held for months
without so much as an interrogation, in an obvious attempt to break his spirit.
During his time there, he was forced to learn a prisoners' code to communicate
with anyone. They used Chinese Commercial Code spoken through a series of ‘yelps
and stomps’. He got to know his neighbors and they formed a community through
their secret language. They spoke of the happenings within the prison, why they
were imprisoned, and who they were beforehand. He spoke of coded obituaries
which the prisoners would do at midnight every night to remember those who had
perished that day, and this is what broke him. Although it was a goodwill
gesture out of respect, it was also a reminder of their mortality. There was one
that stuck with him, the man referred to only as 7806 7185. He had apparently
stood up to the guards, and not only a day later was taken from the facility and
never heard from again.” I have decided to cut a lot of things because a lot of
it is sensitive and for the respect of the family and for my own safety, I would
feel much better if I make a summary here. The reason the son was detained was
because he had allegedly made comments online comparing the Uyghurs to
Palestinians in Gaza. I didn’t want to believe this because it just sounds so
surreal. I want to believe there’s more to this situation but these are the
details that the mother had given me. After the lengthy hours-long discussion
with the mother it was approaching midnight and we didn’t want to take more of
her time. The mother thanked us for coming and wanted to gift us a woven carpet
that she had selected off the wall. I refused the offer but she insisted and
after a back and forth of not wanting to accept the gift I felt it was rude to
reject an act of goodwill so I accepted. “I saw the way you observed this piece
and I knew you would respect the craftsmanship.” I wanted to cry but I held it
in because this was one of the nicest things anyone had done for me. We spoke
about gift for a while until we were interrupted by thumping coming from the
son’s room. It was in a succession of three thumps with a second or two in
between each thump. The mother rushed upstairs and asked her son through the
door if everything was alright. There was no response, no sound of a door
opening. She came down silently with a piece of folded paper in hand. With a
blank look on her face she handed us the paper. Taking the piece of paper I
unfolded it to reveal the characters “黄雪”. I could only hope that this was a
good turn of events and it pained me to write this portion out, but I have to
convince myself that writing this is necessary. There is no happy ending.
Hexbear's character limit won't let me post the end of this, so i've continued
it in this thread [https://hexbear.net/post/4764090]
victim of woke cancel culture 🏳️⚧️
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