Ma Jian - Beijing Coma

I wandered through the crowds with the two Chans. We went to each university camp and asked them to send a representative to our meeting. Before long, we’d assembled more than a hundred people. When we returned to our broadcast station, I saw Sister Gao and Fan Yuan standing in front of it, with Lin Lu and Cheng Bing, the girl from Normal University who was now co-commander of the Hunger Strike Headquarters. Bai Ling, who’d just been discharged from hospital, was there too. Liu Gang, who’d trekked down from the campus to have a word with Old Fu, was sitting next to them.

The meeting kicked off with a discussion on how to manage the Square.

I scanned the assembled crowd. Ke Xi and Han Dan weren’t there. They’d both passed out and were still recovering in hospital. Lin Lu and Liu Gang were the only people who looked composed. Wang Fei’s face was bright red, as was Nuwa’s, who was sitting next to him. He’d taken a table onto the Monument’s lower terrace and fixed a sign to it that said TIANANMEN SQUARE PROPAGANDA OFFICE. As I looked at him, he stood up and shouted, ‘If anyone wants to join the Propaganda Suicide Squad, please sign up here. We’ll set off tonight and reach Shougang Steel Plant before the first shift starts tomorrow morning. We’ll give speeches outside the plant’s entrance, informing the workers that our occupation won’t end until our demands are met…’ There were so many students from the provinces on the Square now that Wang Fei’s regional accent no longer seemed out of place. Liu Gang stood up and proposed that the students return to their campuses, but was immediately shouted down.

A Beijing resident laughed and said, ‘This movement’s a farce! What can a bunch of amateurs like you hope to achieve?’

Shao Jian looked very frail. He stood up slowly and, wrinkling his brow, proposed that the students who weren’t fasting take over the management of the Square.

But Bai Ling didn’t agree. She was sitting on a wooden box, sweat trickling down her neck. Her face was gaunt and sallow. Two nurses in white coats were standing behind her, their hands resting on her shoulders.

‘There are hundreds of thousands of people in the Square,’ I said loudly. ‘The government has pulled the police out of the city, so we are responsible for maintaining public order now. Hunger strikers are passing out every minute. We need to ensure the lifeline is well guarded so that the ambulances can reach them and take them to hospital. If everything is to run smoothly, we’ll need a strong management team. How can you hunger strikers expect to supervise all this while you’re in such a weak state?’

Chen Di’s face was as rough and pale as hemp paper. He kept rising to his feet and asking to say something.

Mou Sen was lying on his side on a stretcher, holding a megaphone in his hand. He opened his eyes and said quietly, ‘The Central Academy of Drama hunger strikers have announced they will refuse all liquids! We shouldn’t waste time on these pointless discussions while students are on the verge of death.’

‘The hunger strikers are in very fragile states,’ said a young doctor who was attaching a drip to Mou Sen’s arm. ‘Don’t say anything that might cause them unnecessary distress.’ Three other student representatives were lying on stretchers next to Mou Sen, attended to by two nurses.

Hai Feng turned up and announced loudly, ‘The hospital has informed us that several of the students who passed out are now in a critical condition, and some have even slipped into comas.’ He moved over to where I was sitting and added, ‘The Dialogue Delegation came to the Square this morning saying it wanted to join forces with the Federation. But the Federation has fallen apart. When Fan Yuan convenes a meeting, he’s the only person to turn up. What the Square needs now is some kind of central leadership.’

‘How can you talk about such things… when we’re struggling to keep ourselves alive?’ Bai Ling said, having to pause in the middle to take a sip of water.

Crowds marching down Changan Avenue chanted, ‘The students are starving themselves to death, while government leaders stuff their bellies with food!… If those corrupt officials sell off all their Mercedes, they’ll wipe out the national debt in one fell swoop!’ The noise was so loud that, for a moment, I couldn’t hear what anyone in the meeting was saying.

‘If you lot go on hunger strike, we’ll stop our fast and look after the Square,’ Cheng Bing said hoarsely. I’d heard she’d fainted from dehydration the day before. Although Tian Yi was very frail, she hadn’t passed out yet.

‘The 27th Army has already entered the outskirts of the city, for God’s sake!’ Hai Feng shouted, waving his hands about in exasperation. ‘We need to get ourselves organised!’

‘The students are collapsing from starvation, and all you do is continue your ugly scramble for power,’ Lin Lu said with a deadpan face.

As the discussion shifted once more to whether we should stay in the Square or withdraw, Bai Ling suddenly fainted. The nurses shouted for someone to call an ambulance. No one was in the mood to continue the meeting. Liu Gang turned to Old Fu and said, ‘Let’s wind this up, Old Fu. We have a broadcast station. We should be using it to promote democracy in the Square and to inform the students of our various points of view.’ He took two drags from his cigarette in quick succession, and watched the representatives get up and leave.

In the evening, groups of Beijing residents continued to pour into the Square to show their support. Whenever they passed a hunger strike camp, they’d yell, ‘Long live the students!’ Big Chan, Little Chan and I had to keep running over and asking them not to shout.

When I returned to the broadcast station, Mao Da turned up with Yan Jia and Bao Zunxin, two reform-minded intellectuals from the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. Mou Sen and I invited them to sit down on the stools in front of the microphone. Mou Sen, who had great admiration for these men, said, ‘Sorry about the strange smell. It’s from this waterproof sheet we’ve just put up… I was very disappointed not to have been here when you visited the Square a couple of days ago. I’ve been reading your books and essays for many years.’ He gazed into Yan Jia’s eyes like a schoolboy thirsting for knowledge. I thought his obsequiousness was a bit over the top.

‘I have an important piece of news to tell you,’ Yan Jia said. ‘Deng Xiaoping has resigned from his post. You students have done a wonderful job!’ Yan Jia was a respected political scientist. He and his wife had written a ground-breaking history of the Cultural Revolution. I’d always assumed he was a young man, but in fact he was middle-aged. His thick-lensed glasses sat heavily on the flat bridge of his nose.

‘Deng Xiaoping has resigned?’ I said, barely believing my ears. ‘My God! That means General Secretary Zhao Ziyang and his reformers have won the internal battle. Our movement has succeeded!’

‘Are you sure this information is correct, Professor Yan?’ asked Mou Sen, not daring to believe what he’d heard either.

‘It is a piece of utterly reliable inside information,’ Yan Jia said solemnly.

‘We’ve brought a copy of our 16 May Declaration we’ve just written in support of your movement,’ Bao Zunxin said. ‘No one else has seen it yet.’ Bao Zunxin was a researcher at the Academy’s History Institute, a think-tank which supplied Zhao Ziyang’s reformist wing with policy ideas.

Mou Sen stroked back his long hair. ‘As luck would have it, we have a professional newsreader with us today,’ he said. ‘He’s just the right man to announce this important news. Let me introduce you both to him. This is Mr Zhao. He works for China Central Television.’