The Good Women of China: Hidden Voices (16 page)

‘Many girls envied me for being able to leave the house and go to school. At that time, women obeyed the “Three Submissions and the Four Virtues”: submission to your father, then your husband and, after his death, your son; the virtues of fidelity, physical charm, propriety in speech and action, diligence in housework. For thousands of years, women had been taught to respect the aged, be dutiful to their husbands, tend the stove and do the needlework, all without setting foot outside the house. For a woman to study, read and write, discuss affairs of state like a man, and even advise men, was heresy to most Chinese at that time. My classmates and I appreciated our freedom and good fortune, but were also at a loss because we had no role models.

‘Although we all came from liberal families who understood the importance of study, society around us and the inertia of tradition made it hard for any one of us to fix on an independent course in life.

‘I was very grateful to my parents, who had never made demands on me or made me follow the traditional Chinese rules for women. Not only was I allowed to go to school – albeit a girls’ school – I was also allowed to eat at the same table as my parents’ friends and discuss politics and current affairs. I could attend any meeting and choose any sports or activities I liked. The odd “goodhearted person” in the town admonished me for my modern ways, but throughout my childhood and time as a student I was very happy. Most importantly, I was free.’ She muttered quietly to herself, ‘Free . . .

‘I drank in everything around me. Nothing restrained my choices. I longed for some grand undertaking on a spectacular scale; I wanted to startle the world with a brilliant feat, and dreamed of being a beauty accompanied by a hero. When I read a book on the Revolution called
The Red Star
, I found a world I had only previously known from history books. Was this the future I longed for? I was beside myself with excitement, and decided to join the revolution. Surprisingly, my parents took quite a different stance from their usual liberal one. They forbade me to go, telling me that my decision was neither sensible nor based on fact. They said that immature ideas were bound to be bitter and sour because they were unripe. I took their words as a personal criticism, and reacted very badly. Spurred on by youthful obstinacy, I decided to show them I was no ordinary girl.

‘Over the next forty years, their words often sounded in my ears. I understood that my parents had not just been talking about me; they had been alluding to the future of China.

‘One night in midsummer, I packed two sets of clothes and a few books, and left my happy, peaceful family, just like a heroine in a novel. I remember to this day my thoughts as I walked out of the gate: Father, Mother, I’m sorry. I’m determined to be written about in books, and to make you proud.

‘Later, my parents did indeed see my name in many books and reports, but only as a wife, nothing more. I don’t know why, but my mother always used to ask me: Are you happy? Right up to her death, I never replied directly to this question. I didn’t know how to reply, but I believe my mother knew the answer.’

She stayed silent for several seconds, then continued in a confused tone, ‘Was I happy?’ She muttered to herself, ‘What is happiness . . . am I happy?

‘I was very happy when I first arrived in the area liberated by the Party. Everything was so new and strange: in the fields, peasants and soldiers were indistinguishable; on the parade ground, the civilian guard stood side by side with the soldiers. Men and women wore the same clothes and did the same things; the leaders were not distinguished by symbols of rank. Everyone was talking about the future of China; every day there were criticisms and condemnations of the old system. Reports of injury and death in combat were all around us. In this atmosphere, the female students were treated like princesses, valued for the lightness of spirit and beauty we brought. The men who roared and fought ferociously on the battlefield were meek as lambs beside us in classes.

‘I stayed only three months in the liberated area. After that I was assigned to a team working on land reform on the north bank of the Yellow River. My work unit, a cultural troupe working under the general headquarters, brought the Communist Party’s policies to the people through music, dancing and all kinds of other cultural activities. This was a poor area; apart from the Chinese trumpet played at weddings and funerals, they had never had any cultural life, so we were warmly welcomed.

‘I was one of the few girls in my troupe who could sing, dance, act and play music; my dancing in particular was the best. Every time we had a get-together with the senior officers, they would always vie to dance with me. I was outgoing and was always smiling and laughing, so everyone called me “the lark”. I was a happy little bird then, without a care in the world.

‘You know the saying: “The chicken in the coop has grain but the soup pot is near, the wild crane has none but its world is vast.” A caged lark shares the same fate as the chicken. On the evening of my eighteenth birthday, the group threw a birthday party for me. Back then there was no birthday cake or champagne. All we had was a couple of biscuits saved by my companions from their rations, with a little sugar dissolved in water. Conditions were hard, but we enjoyed ourselves. I was dancing and singing when the regimental leader signalled for me to stop and follow him. Very unwillingly, I went with him to the office, where he asked me seriously, “Are you prepared to complete any mission the Party organisation gives you?”

‘“Of course!”’ I replied unhesitatingly. I had always wanted to join the Party, but because my family background was not revolutionary, I knew I would have to work much harder than others to qualify.

‘“Are you willing to fulfil any mission unconditionally, no matter what it is?”

‘I was puzzled. The regimental leader had always been so straightforward, why was he so vague and shifty today? But I replied quickly, “Yes, I guarantee to accomplish the mission!”

‘He didn’t seem at all happy with my determination, but told me to set off on my “urgent mission” immediately, travelling through the night to the regional government compound. I wanted to say goodbye to my friends, but he said there was no need. Because it was wartime, I accepted this and left with the two soldiers sent specially to collect me. They remained silent throughout our two-hour journey, and I couldn’t ask questions either, that was the rule.

‘At the regional government compound, I was introduced to a senior officer dressed in army uniform. He looked me up and down, and said, “Not bad at all . . . Right, from today you are my secretary. You must study more from now on, work hard to reform yourself and strive to join the Party as soon as possible.” Then he ordered someone to take me to a room to rest. The room was very comfortable; there was even a new quilt on the
kang
. It seemed that working for a leader really was different, but I was so exhausted that I didn’t give the matter further thought before I fell asleep.

‘Later that night, I was woken by a man climbing into the bed. Terrified, I was about to scream when he put his hand over my mouth and said in a low voice, “Shhh – don’t disturb the other comrades” rest. This is your mission.’

‘“Mission?”

‘“Yes, from today this is your mission.”

‘The unfeeling voice belonged to the senior officer I had met earlier. I had no strength to defend myself, and didn’t know how. I could only weep.

‘The next day, the Party informed me that they were holding a simple wedding party that night to celebrate our marriage. That officer is my husband now.

‘For a long time, I asked myself how this could have happened. How could I have been “married off by the revolution”? For the last forty years, I have lived numbly in humiliation. My husband’s career is everything to him; women only fulfil a physical need for him, no more. He says, “If you don’t use a woman, why bother with her?”

‘My youth was cut short, my hopes crushed, and everything beautiful about me used up by a man.’

She fell silent.

‘Sorry, Xinran, I’ve only been thinking of myself, talking away like this. Did your machine get it all? I know women talk too much, but I so seldom have the opportunity or any desire to speak; I live like an automaton. At last, I’ve been able to speak out without fear. I feel lighter. Thank you. And thank your radio station and your colleagues too. Goodbye.’

My colleagues and I stood rooted to the spot for a few moments after the woman said goodbye, moved, sobered and shocked by her tale. When I applied for permission to broadcast it, the authorities refused, commenting that it would damage the people’s perception of our leaders.

Old Chen had been one of those who had crowded around the tape recorder to hear the wife of the provincial leader tell her story. Later, he told me he had not been surprised by it. Many men who joined the revolution left wives and children behind in order to follow the Party. Once they had attained senior positions, the Party matched them with new wives because their first wives were trapped in areas under enemy occupation.

The majority of the new wives were students who believed fervently in the Communist Party and hero-worshipped the gun-toting men in it. Many of them came from wealthy families; all were cultivated young women. They could not have been more different from the first wives, who were mostly peasants. Their refinement excited the officers’ desire for novelty, and their education made them good teachers and staff officers.

In 1950, after the Communist Party had taken control of most of China, the new government was faced with the problem of what to do about the original wives of their leaders. The first wives of many men who had become high-ranking officials now trailed into Beijing with their children in tow, hoping to find their husbands. The government was promoting women’s liberation, sexual equality and monogamy, so this posed a dilemma. The officials had started new families with their new wives: which wife and children were to go and which were to stay? There was no law on which any decision could be based.

As far as which family would benefit their career and position in society went, the choice was obvious. However, the men were lost for words before their first wives, who had gone through years of hardship for them. These illiterate women, who could not even read the simplest Chinese characters, understood one thing: they belonged to the men who had lifted their veils and changed them from girls to wives.

Eventually, a government document was drawn up which recognised the political position of these women. They were granted a few special political rights and a lifelong guarantee of living expenses. Obeying orders they barely understood, the women went back to their villages with their children, who grew to resent both parents.

The villagers did not dare condemn or mock the abandoned women because they were under government protection. However, few of these simple, honest women made use of their special position or privileges to seek an easier life. They merely accepted the living allowance from the government – a small sum, which hardly increased with inflation – and brought up their children alone. Very few of them married again.

Old Chen said that one of these women had told him, ‘Why should I rub salt in my wounds by using my privileges? People would only talk about my husband, and make me miss him even more.’

Later, I found out that, like the woman who had telephoned my programme, many of the new wives were unhappily married: would it have comforted the first wives to know this? Like my anonymous caller, many new wives had been allocated a husband whom they knew nothing about. Their education, their culture, their refinement and the Western-style romanticism they had learned to feel in their progressive schools were initially attractive to their husbands, but ultimately unacceptable. Their husbands had grown up in the fields and amid the brutality of war. They had been taught by the older generation that a woman should be controlled and shut away. The gap between the husbands’ and the new wives’ expectations was narrowed by the women’s compliance, but the men soon lost interest and began to see their wives as mere tools.

When I visited my parents one weekend, I said to my mother that I found it very difficult to distinguish between life in an emotionally barren marriage and being in prison. My mother replied lightly, ‘How many people in China have a marriage based on love?’ When I asked her why she said this, she made an excuse and left the room. I knew that my mother listened to my radio programme almost every day, but we seldom spoke about our feelings. All my life, I had longed to be held by her: she never once hugged or kissed me when I was a child; when I became an adult, any such display of affection between us was prevented by traditional Chinese reserve. Between 1945 and 1985 (when movement around the country became possible once again) many Chinese families were split up. We were no exception and I had spent very little time with my parents. I very much wanted to know more about my mother, the woman who had given me life, and who had given me countless questions about women. My growing confidence as a journalist helped me to start piecing together what I knew of her story.

My mother comes from a large capitalist family in Nanjing, a city that teems with life but is peaceful and harmonious, quite different from political Beijing, commercial Shanghai and raucous Guangzhou. Sun Yat-sen, the founder of modern China, chose to be laid to rest in Nanjing and the Guomindang once had their capital there.

Situated on the banks of the Yangtze River in south-east China, by the imposing Zijin mountain, the city is one of lakes and green places. Shady, tree-lined boulevards lead off in all directions, and the historic palaces, the city walls and the modern buildings by the river show the richness of Nanjing’s cultural heritage. The Chinese say that people are shaped by the water and earth around them; from what I know of my mother’s family, I believe this to be true.