In June 1989, at the age of 27, I found myself caught up in a momentous event in world history. The previous year, as a young teacher, I had gone to live and teach English with the Amity Foundation in Southern China.
On our university campus throughout 1989, I remember sense of the temperature steadily rising. There were demonstrations and the students were restless. But nothing prepared us for what actually happened. On the weekend of 4 June, I found myself in the Southern capital of Nanjing waking up to the sound of US teacher Carol next door banging on the door with the shocking news that tanks had gone into the streets of Beijing. What?
Our reports came from the BBC World Service. In our concrete teachers’ block, a group of us gathered round and hung on to the words of our tiny transistor radio in horror – hearing of folk being mown down with tanks. There were no phones, and no way to know what the outside world knew; we didn’t see the images conveyed by the foreign journalists until very much later. We had local reporting and rumours. I remember our own professor saying he didn’t know what to believe. When we heard the local TV reports, we had to pinch ourselves. I wrote:
‘A few hooligans in Tiananmen….Troops did a good job…etc etc’. So many think they are wonderful! On the TV news last night they were actually showing telephone numbers to phone if you knew and could inform on anyone who was involved in fighting with the soldiers….We were stunned, simply could not believe it. Like the rumour about the army being put on hallucinatory drugs before they were sent into Tiananmen ….terrifying… that they were kept in the dark – they didn’t know anything about the situation.
Looking back now, I think living in China at that time made me grow up. I learned about things happening on multiple levels at the same time. I also learned what it is like to be a foreigner in a land that is not yours, when the chips are down. Wrong place, wrong time: we didn’t want to be in the way and our government soon advised us to leave.
On the one hand we were observers, but on the other witnesses. In the eye of the storm, after several days indoors, we did venture out on to the streets of Nanjing. I wrote:
Who knows what the outcome will be. It was a sight unlike I have ever seen – the roads of Nanjing totally blocked by tanks, trucks and people, ropes, banners, anything available – on Monday, when we ventured out. An electric atmosphere, tensely nervous. Aggressive anger was tangible: I have never been looked at in such a way since coming here. Of course, a couple of foreigners pushing bikes were sticking out somewhat, and more so than usual attention was directed at us. An uncomfortable feeling: always the possibility of becoming the butt of their frustrations. Those people who starred at us were so justifiably angry – more than likely they had relatives up in Tiananmen. I’ll never forget those faces of unspeakable anger and the utter despair in their eyes. Anyway, we kept going, fast.
At the centre of the city the roundabout was chaos – hordes of people, with each exit totally blocked. We made it across and were stunned to see the PRC flag at half-mast, and an enormous white flag with a large black character completely dominating it, horrifying and stark, meaning ‘death’. The processions had a darkness too, with the students wearing the black armbands for death and huge circles of funeral flowers at the head of each street. We had cameras, but there was no way we were going to chance taking pictures. Didn’t need to, the image of that day is imprinted on our minds forever.
I learned a great deal about anger and bravery and courage that summer. About what happens when pent-up frustration boils up and cannot be contained. The sobering feeling of feeling learning what humans are capable of. Something of what it feels when the future of life itself seems at stake. The students in our city were actually using their own bodies as human shields to stop the army coming into Nanjing. I wrote:
Although 25 of about 35 main roads in the city were blocked for two days – the students were using ropes, barricades and their own bodies to do so – since then the roads have been relatively clear, though it feels like an uneasy kind of respite. Maybe the calm before the storm, a further crackdown, civil war is a real possibility.
A feeling that anything could happen… I think the seeds of how my life would develop began in this experience. It wasn’t my country, but I was close to my students, who I had loved and laughed with and shared cookery lessons. I learned what it is like to be powerless in the face of tragedy. I spoke with a girl whose husband was killed in Tiananmen, she hadn’t heard from him for several days. Our own professor came to see us, his daughter in Xinhua University in Beijing, which was surrounded by troops. He was beside himself with worry, not knowing if she was safe. It was heartbreaking to see and witness. One student – I call him ‘Martin’ – came to see me and talk. He was usually ebullient, a bright spirit. I was shocked to see him now. He was full of darkness inside….’I have no hope for my future now in life…’ Amidst this angst, the graciousness, I remember being touched by the students coming to see to thank us for teaching them before they fled to the countryside:
There is a nobility in the Chinese spirit, and the warmth shines through, which is truly humbling.
I learned about how folk can transcend their own sufferings, and often do. I remember going to the bank to withdraw my money and close my account. There had been a rumour that accounts had been frozen, but I managed to get my money in US dollars. I remember the lady behind the counter looking at me with sad, resigned eyes. ‘Are you leaving China now?’ I said I was leaving but I hoped to come back if I could. She said: ‘You will be welcome here’.
I learned what it is like to be in a crisis, at a turning point. The Chinese folk were resigned. I wrote:
It truly will be a tragedy for China if the days of the Cultural Revolution are returned to over again.
That wasn’t what happened, but when I visited in 2004 I remember being utterly chilled when our young guide said she had never heard of Tiananmen Square 1989. Things go in different ways after turning points.
I do remember feeling an imperative – to hold on to the hope for something different in bad times. I reflected then that is what is most important in crisis:
The very foundations of the society and the roots of corruption, deception and dishonesty feel all-pervading, but there is a spark of something different here, mostly within the character of the people themselves… My hope is that this is given the chance to grow.
Reading my reflections once more brings home to me the enormity and privilege of being in China at that time. I learned about opportunity for change, I learned what it is like to live in the moment and not know what will happen next. There was a high likelihood that the country might erupt into civil war. Of course, that was not what happened when the heavy hand of Communist control was reasserted, but I remember the everything-to-play-for feeling at the time. I learned about different narratives. We were caught up in the story for our Chinese friends, but our families back in UK were going nutty, fearing for our safety. I remember being perplexed and confused.
I remember the intensity of living several years in just a few weeks. Looking back now at the age of 62, it makes sense of so much that has come later in my life and how my thirty-year career has unfolded. My love of being a Samaritan volunteer was formative, sitting with folk in extremis has always been a privilege. Being alongside others at crossroads in their lives, as an interviewer, then as a counsellor and psychotherapist, and now publishing a book on trauma, I have always and endlessly been fascinated about individuals’ journeys, what leads us to particular points, what it is like to face pain, learn and grow from it.
Thank you China.