Ma Jian - Beijing Coma

What was wrong with our generation? When the guns were pointing at our heads, we were still wasting time squabbling among ourselves. We were courageous but inexperienced, and had little understanding of Chinese history.

You remember standing in the centre of the Square, the hot wind blowing across your face. The Square was like the room you are lying in now: a warm space with a beating heart trapped in the middle of a cold city.

Shortly before dusk, an announcement came over some new loudspeakers that had just been attached to the other side of the Monument. Yu Jin ran off to see what was going on, and returned a few minutes later saying, ‘The Beijing Students’ Federation and the Qinghua University students have set up their own broadcast station at the south-east corner of the Monument. They’re calling it “Voice of Qinghua”.’

Old Fu was talking to Mou Sen about establishing a new editorial system. They’d both been appointed vice commanders of the Hunger Strike Headquarters by Bai Ling. When Old Fu heard the news, he got up and said, ‘Come on, let’s go round and take a look.’

‘Sounds like their equipment is at least three times stronger than ours,’ Little Chan said. ‘And they’ve got many more loudspeakers as well. Look, they’re all stacked up there on the lower terrace.’

‘It will be chaotic if we’re both broadcasting at the same time,’ Big Chan said, catching up with us. Since Big Chan and Little Chan had joined my student marshal team three days before, they hadn’t left the Square. They took their jobs very seriously, and were now responsible for overseeing the security of the Monument area.

‘I’m sure we can reach some kind of understanding,’ Old Fu said calmly.

The Qinghua camp on the other side looked much better organised than ours. They’d erected a large white tent to shield their hunger strikers from the heat, and had cooled the stone ground in front of it with water and big blocks of ice.

Their broadcast station was a square lean-to shelter erected against the base of the Monument, just like ours. The door faced south. There were so many student marshals protecting it, I couldn’t see inside. We tried to enter, but they blocked our way. Old Fu said, ‘Please ask the station chief to come out. We’ve brought a tape for him to broadcast.’

Zhou Suo stepped out of the tent. He was the chairman of Qinghua University’s Organising Committee. From his dark, weathered skin and rugged features, you could tell he’d grown up in the windy wastes of Shanxi Province’s Yellow Plateau.

Yu Jin walked up to him. ‘We’re from the Beijing University broadcast station. I think we’ve met.’

‘We’ve brought a tape for you,’ Old Fu said, in a friendly but slightly condescending tone. ‘It’s very moving. You can use it if you like. We only broadcast to the Beijing University students. The people on this side can’t hear us.’

‘The Beijing Students’ Federation decides what we broadcast, and you’re not the chairman of it any more, Old Fu,’ Zhou Suo said frostily.

A trace of embarrassment passed over Old Fu’s face as he realised he’d lost his authority. ‘Well, I’m still a member of its leadership committee,’ he protested. ‘Who else from the Beijing Students’ Federation is here?’

‘Fan Yuan and Sister Gao. You can ask them if they want to play the tape, if you like.’ Zhou Suo clearly didn’t want to have to take responsibility for anything.

We walked into their tent. It was very dark inside. I took off my sunglasses.

Old Fu spotted Sister Gao. ‘You borrowed money off us,’ he said, walking up to her. ‘I didn’t realise it was to set up a rival broadcast station!’

‘The money I borrowed was to buy chocolate and biscuits for the hunger strikers who were taken to hospital. Cao Ming came with me when I handed the food out. If you don’t believe me, ask him.’ Sister Gao was kneeling on the ground, sorting through a pile of scripts.

‘You only broadcast to the Beijing University students,’ Fan Yuan said coolly. ‘But the Federation has a duty to disseminate information to the broad mass of students and civilians in the Square. We didn’t spend any of your money on this equipment. That generator was donated to us by the workers of Beijing.’

‘We don’t need the Federation in the Square,’ Old Fu said, his expression hardening. ‘You should go back to the campuses.’

‘You’re not chairman or commander-in-chief any longer,’ Sister Gao said. ‘You can’t tell us what to do. The majority of the universities’ organising committees supported this plan. They all supported us.’ She often repeated herself when she was angry.

‘If you carry on like this, no one will be able to hear our broadcasts back there,’ I chipped in, seeing that Old Fu was now speechless with rage.

‘Well, stop broadcasting then!’ Fan Yuan said. ‘All you do is get famous intellectuals to repeat that this is the gravest moment in our nation’s history and it’s our duty to take a stand. You’re more of a celebrity show than a students’ broadcast station.’ Fan Yuan was wearing metal-rimmed glasses. From the side, he looked as thin as a plank of wood.

‘We were here first,’ Big Chan said. ‘You’re destroying student solidarity by setting up this rival operation.’

Their pretty announcer came over and said, ‘Everyone’s sick of your broadcasts. In the morning, they’re sombre and depressing, but when the supporters turn up in the afternoon, they become light-hearted and optimistic. All those ups and downs are driving us mad.’ She smiled as she spoke. The sound of her clear voice was as refreshing as eating an ice cream on a hot day. But she wasn’t as beautiful as Nuwa.

‘That broadcast you made just now wasn’t very impressive,’ Little Chan said. ‘You were just reading out telegrams and petitions. Couldn’t you come up with any better ideas?’

‘Before you set up this place, it would have been sensible to discuss your plans with us,’ Old Fu said meekly, aware now of his lack of clout.

‘Without a broadcast station, we wouldn’t be able to do any propaganda work,’ Fan Yuan said. Then he paused and added, ‘I think it would be best if you closed your station and let us get on with our job.’

‘In that joint meeting we had a couple of hours ago, you didn’t say a word about setting up this station,’ Old Fu said.

‘That meeting was about whether to withdraw from the Square or not,’ said Sister Gao. She and Old Fu had been good friends in the past.

Realising that the argument wasn’t getting anywhere, we turned and left.

‘Our only option now is to buy a bigger amplifier and put up more loudspeakers,’ I said on our way back to our station.

Nearby, someone had hung a small bottle over a placard that said THE PEOPLE OF SICHUAN INVITE YOU TO RETURN HOME, COMRADE DENG. This was clearly a pun on Deng Xiaoping’s given name, which although means ‘Little Peace’ sounds identical to ‘Little Bottle’. The people who gathered round it laughed as they read the message.

‘When the Federation moved to the Square today, the Qinghua University marshals gave them access to the Monument’s upper terrace,’ Big Chan said.

‘The Federation must have collected a lot of donations,’ Little Chan added. ‘Look, they’ve arranged a communication office and a finance office up there, and they’re all wearing red neck-scarves. They look like a proper little army.’ He and Big Chan were wearing the same brand of denim shorts.

Old Fu seemed suddenly to recover his authority. ‘We must call a meeting of the university representatives straight away, and decide who is responsible for what. Let’s get started. I’ll clear a space in front of our broadcast station, and you go and notify the representatives, Dai Wei.’