Ma Jian - Beijing Coma

As I listen to this woman speak, I remember Nuwa’s gentle voice. It always reminded me of the sound of flowing water.

I’ve been lifted onto the stage in my wheelchair. I can sense waves of energy flow through my body, especially around my colon and spleen. Parts of my flesh begin to quiver.

‘Look, that gentleman is smiling. Perhaps the qi has touched his funny bone. Please don’t laugh, comrades. Compose yourselves…’

The laughter and chatter in the hall die down. The compère’s high-heeled shoes click down the line of patients on the stage. For a moment I sense her attention focus on me. No doubt put off by my wooden expression, she quickly moves on to my mother. ‘Look at this lady,’ the compère says. ‘She is clearly very sensitive to the waves of qi. See how she’s rocking back and forth now…’

It’s hard to imagine my mother, the loyal Communist, being willing to engage in this esoteric practice.

A garlicky smell of hot sour soup wafts from someone’s mouth. A pager goes off. I feel like I’m in a busy restaurant.

‘Master Hu is expelling the illness from her body. This young lady standing next to her, please make an effort. Close your eyes and let your arms fall loosely to your sides. Relax as much as you can. Everyone is reacting to the qi in different ways, depending on their illnesses. This gentleman said that he suffers from arthritis. Can you see how his knee is shaking now?’

I wish I could escape from this stage, and the thousands of eyes staring at me. Half an hour ago my mother was pushing me through the sunny streets. I heard the wind brush against my ear then whistle off into the distance. Now I’m sitting on the stage like an actor. The audience is waiting for me to open my eyes and stand up. But I know that I’m incapable of doing that, because the part of my brain that controls these actions has been irreparably damaged… To the north is the Land of Ghosts. The inhabitants have human heads and snake bodies, and only one eye…

A fierce wind brushed across my eyes. It filled the Square with blinding dust and dispelled some of the smells of broken medicine bottles, food-stained newspaper and rotting refuse…

You imagine your body hovering in mid-air, orbited by its memories.

The huge banner calling for HONEST DIALOGUE hung from the roof of the Museum of Chinese History, soaking up the bright sunlight. It was the fourth day of the hunger strike, and the crowd on the Square was larger than ever.

Han Dan and Yang Tao were the only instigators of the hunger strike who had not yet been taken to hospital. The previous night, Bai Ling had been carried out of the Square on a stretcher. A total of six hundred hunger strikers had passed out. Many of them rejoined the hunger strike as soon as they regained consciousness.

‘The hunger is making everyone go crazy,’ Han Dan said softly, tapping his ballpoint pen on a newspaper lying on the ground. His eyes were dark and sunken.

Sister Gao hurried over and said, ‘A group of Beijing University professors have gone up onto the viewing stands and started a hunger strike in solidarity with us. They’ve been joined by thirty young professors from the Central Institute of National Minorities. Han Dan, you must decide how to respond.’

‘I can only speak on behalf of the Beijing University students,’ Han Dan said. ‘Tell Mou Sen to write a letter of thanks and get the station to broadcast it. Apparently, the director of the United Front Department is going to visit the Square this afternoon to try to plead with the students to end the hunger strike. I’m in favour of ending the strike, but if Bai Ling and Lin Lu want us to persevere with it, there’s nothing I can do.’ Han Dan’s only post now was head of the Beijing University Hunger Strike Petition Group.

‘There must be at least 100,000 people on the Square,’ Sister Gao said. ‘And tomorrow, the professors want to organise a mass march through the city. With so much support behind us, how can you contemplate withdrawing?’ Sister Gao appeared to have changed her mind again.

Two white ambulances drove into the Square, their sirens wailing, and sped down the lifeline that the marshals had cleared for them.

‘Students from Beijing Medical University have come to discuss setting up a first-aid clinic, Han Dan,’ Chen Di said, walking up. ‘They’re waiting for you at the broadcast station.’ Chen Di had been surviving on milk and glucose solution for the last couple of days, and had broadcast many moving statements from other hunger strikers. Xiao Li was in a much weaker state. He’d passed out twice, and had been put on a drip in the emergency tent.

‘Tell them to talk to Bai Ling. I can’t speak on behalf of the Hunger Strike Headquarters.’ Han Dan’s lips were dry and chapped. He was sweating so much that the black ink on his white bandanna was seeping onto his forehead.

‘I can’t go back to them now,’ Chen Di said with a pained expression. ‘I’ve just shat in my trousers. I’ve probably got colitis. I’m going off to buy myself some shorts.’

‘I should put up a sign here saying: “Beijing University Hunger Strike Petition Group”,’ said Han Dan crossly. ‘I’ll only deal with our hunger strikers. The Beijing Students’ Federation can look after everyone else.’ He seemed perturbed that, by the fourth day of the hunger strike, his position had been usurped by more charismatic and radical students.

A large crowd came marching down Changan Avenue, holding a banner that said BEIJING CITIZENS’ SOLIDARITY GROUP. A guy at the front shouted through a megaphone: ‘We want to assemble a crowd of 10,000 residents and set off on a march. If anyone wants to take part, join the back of our procession!’ They were dressed in blue overalls and red-and-white baseball caps. Some of them were holding spades or brooms, others had children on their shoulders. The colourful procession moved closer and spiralled slowly around the Square, progressing towards the Monument in the centre like fallen leaves and branches being drawn into a muddy hole.

‘Dai Wei, where are your student marshals?’ Old Fu cried out. ‘I need them to protect the broadcast station.’

‘They’re guarding the Monument and the Beijing University hunger strikers,’ I said as he came closer. ‘Can’t Xiao Li help out?’

‘He’s fainted again. The broadcast station is the mouthpiece of the students. If it isn’t properly guarded, the Square will fall into chaos. You must recruit more marshals, then set up subunits, each with its own leader, and give everyone a number. Go and buy some hats and armbands to distribute to your team.’

‘Who are you representing now, Old Fu?’ Sister Gao asked. ‘The Hunger Strike Headquarters, the Beijing Students’ Federation or our Organising Committee?’

‘The hunger strikers, of course! They’re sacrificing their lives for our cause. It’s our duty to help them.’ Old Fu was panting for breath. He sounded as though he’d just run a marathon.

‘I thought you wanted to go back to campus, Old Fu,’ I said.

‘I can’t leave now. Bai Ling has appointed me temporary commander-in-chief, and I’ve also got the broadcast station to look after.’

‘The director of the United Front Department will be here in a couple of hours,’ Han Dan said. ‘Make sure the broadcast station is securely cordoned off by then.’

‘He’ll be wasting his time,’ Old Fu said. ‘The hunger strikers won’t give up until the government agrees to our demands.’ As I walked over to the broadcast station with him, he said, ‘Everyone’s trying to take control of the station. We should get all our guys over there now — Hai Feng, Zhuzi and Shao Jian — and come up with a strategy.’

‘What about Shu Tong?’ I was worried to see that the lifeline we’d cleared for the ambulances was now full of people.