Ma Jian - Beijing Coma

‘He’s gone back to the campus again. He and Liu Gang opposed the hunger strike, so I doubt the students will let him return to the Square.’

‘Han Dan and Ke Xi have continued with their hunger strike, but are both calling for a withdrawal. It doesn’t make sense.’

‘We Beijing University students must establish our authority, or we’ll just get caught up in the struggles of rival factions,’ Old Fu said.

‘Those twelve intellectuals who came to the Square yesterday were trying to establish their authority too, but you thought they wanted to take over our movement,’ I said, repeating a view that Mou Sen had expressed.

‘No, they weren’t trying to take control. They just wanted us to leave the Square in time for Gorbachev’s welcoming ceremony so that the government didn’t lose face.’ Old Fu looked distracted. It seemed as though only half his brain was working.

As we walked into the broadcast station’s tent, I said, ‘I don’t agree with you, Old Fu. The intellectuals knew the students had backed themselves into a corner. They were giving us a chance to withdraw from the Square with our dignity intact.’ Mou Sen was lying on the ground writing a news bulletin, sucking deeply on a cigarette. I snatched it from his mouth and stamped it out. His face was like a sheet of grey paper, soaked in sweat. He looked as though he needed to be put on a drip.

‘Some more Nankai University students have arrived from Tianjin,’ Mou Sen whispered, not wanting to disturb the broadcast discussion Mao Da was chairing. ‘They’re stuck outside the Square’s security cordon over there. They’ve got no food or blankets. It’s too much. They’re very angry.’

‘Let them join our student marshal team,’ Wang Fei said, waking from a nap.

Outside the tent, hundreds of students were queuing up, hoping for a chance to broadcast messages or statements.

‘I sent some Nankai University students to guard the water barrels on the Monument’s lower terrace,’ I said, sitting down on a box of paper. It was quite cool inside the tent. I longed to hide in a quiet corner and sneak some food into my mouth. ‘The Beijing University Youth League has come to the Square to support the hunger strikers,’ Old Fu said to me. ‘They’ve brought food and water. We’ve set up a supply station below the Museum of Chinese History. Can you send some student marshals over to guard it?’

‘Ask Mou Sen to sort that out,’ I said. ‘I’ve got enough to deal with.’

‘The Youth League has set up a telephone line,’ said Wang Fei, lighting a cigarette. ‘I think we should appropriate it. Hey, have you heard? The restaurant owners in Qianmen market are handing out free food to the students. If you show them your student card, they’ll give you a box of provisions. It’s just like the mutual aid teams that sprang up during the Cultural Revolution.’

‘Many of the people on the citizens’ march today work for government organisations. And they’re calling for the same things as we are. The protests are ascending to a new level.’ Mou Sen resembled the great writer Lu Xun in the famous photograph taken of him on his deathbed.

Mao Da walked over, grabbed Mou Sen’s metal cup, took two sips from it, then returned to the debate he was chairing behind the stack of equipment. There were eight or nine people squeezed around the microphone.

‘Let us resume the discussion,’ Mao Da said. Now that he’d drunk some water, his voice was twice as loud.

‘I’m an economics student. I’d just like to remind everyone that no communist nation has ever had a successful economy…’

‘I’m a second-year sociology student. The government keeps promising to provide universal English language education, but the majority of middle-school students around the country still fail to reach even the most basic level of English. What’s the government doing with all our money?’

‘I’d just like to say —’

‘You must introduce yourself first,’ Mao Da interrupted.

‘Sorry, I’m a third-year geography student. I’d just like to say that I’ve never heard of a case where democracy has been created by a peaceful sit-in and a crowd of onlookers. If we want democracy, we must use more radical tactics. If we need to sweat, we must sweat. If we need to shed blood, we must shed blood!’

I could hear the huge crowd outside break into applause.

‘I’m from Nankai University in Tianjin,’ said a student in a yellow baseball cap. ‘I arrived here two days ago. This morning, workers from Shougang Steel Plant marched to the Square to show their support. They held placards saying: “Don’t worry, your brothers are here at last!”… I have a sore throat, so I can’t speak for too long. Thank you, everyone!’

I knew this student. The day before, he’d helped me reorganise the lifeline through the Square.

‘Fellow students, I’m from Shanghai’s Fudan University. I’ve queued up for hours for a chance to speak to you. I wanted to tell you that the students of Shanghai have taken to the streets, and hundreds have gone on hunger strike in solidarity with our fellow students in Beijing!’

Shu Tong walked into the tent, followed by Zhuzi. ‘It took us ages to persuade the marshals to allow us back into the Square,’ he said. ‘Luckily, I had my student card with me. Where have all these new marshals come from? They don’t seem to have any idea who I am.’

‘The broadcast station back at the campus is better organised than this place,’ Zhuzi grumbled. He was too tall to stand up in the tent, even with his head bowed, so he had to sink into a squat.

‘We’ve brought some more cash with us,’ said Shu Tong. ‘Put it in a safe place, Old Fu. Hey, Dai Wei, I’ve heard your brother has joined the hunger strike in Sichuan.’ He sat on a cardboard box. Sweat was pouring down the back of his neck.

‘I haven’t had a chance to phone him yet,’ I said. ‘My mother has been calling him every day, begging him to give up, but he won’t listen.’

‘So you’ve got a brother, then? Is he as tall as you?’ Nuwa took a swig of Coke. Her hair was a little longer now. I could see the ends peeping out from under her baseball cap.

‘Don’t waste your time asking about him,’ I said. ‘I’m the tall, handsome one in my family!’

After this feeble attempt at humour, Nuwa looked away and didn’t address another word to me.

‘Apparently the Dialogue Delegation and Beijing Students’ Federation set up offices in the Square this morning,’ Shu Tong said. ‘We’ve decided to shift the Organising Committee’s focus to the Square too, and we’ll be using this station as our base.’

‘This station was set up to serve the hunger strikers,’ Old Fu said, his eyes darting about nervously. ‘You can’t take it over.’

‘But the Organising Committee paid for all this equipment,’ Zhuzi said. ‘We only sent you here to take care of logistics, Old Fu. Of course we should retain control of this place.’ Since the police had left the city centre, Zhuzi had positioned teams of student marshals at various key intersections to supervise traffic, and had given them walkie-talkies so that everyone could stay in touch.

Wanting to defuse the situation, I said, ‘The authorities have cut off our water again today. What shall we do?’

‘You can get water in the men’s toilets of the Workers’ Cultural Palace,’ Shao Jian said. ‘I went there just now.’

‘I’ve heard the student marshals haven’t had anything to eat for hours,’ Zhuzi said.

‘I’ve just sent a group of them off to eat something by the Museum,’ I said. ‘The hunger strikers won’t be able to see them there.’

‘I stood with the marshals yesterday, protecting the lifeline,’ Big Chan said. He was lying on a cotton sheet on the ground. ‘Local residents came over and gave us food and drink. Some of them put cigarettes in our mouths and lit them for us. One old woman wiped the sweat from my face with a clean flannel. Then she took a fresh one from her bag to wipe someone else’s face. It was very moving.’