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Published by Chatto & Windus 2002
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Copyright © The Good Woman of China Ltd, 2002
Xinran has asserted her right under the Coypright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
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Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Contents
The Good Women of China
Prologue
1. My Journey Towards the Stories of Chinese Women
2. The Girl Who Kept a Fly as a Pet
3. The University Student
4. The Scavenger Woman
5. The Mothers Who Endured an Earthquake
6. What Chinese Women Believe
7. The Woman Who Loved Women
8. The Woman Whose Marriage Was Arranged by the Revolution
9. My Mother
10. The Woman Who Waited Forty-five Years
11. The Guomindang General’s Daughter
12. The Childhood I Cannot Leave Behind Me
13. The Woman Whose Father Does Not Know Her
14. A Fashionable Woman
15. The Women of Shouting Hill
Acknowledgements
Epilouge
For every Chinese woman
and for my son PanPan
Author’s Note
The stories told here are true, but names have been changed in order to protect the people concerned.
In Chinese, ‘Xiao’ in front of a surname means ‘young’. When it precedes a first name, it creates a diminutive and indicates that the speaker is close to the person being addressed.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank:
PanPan
for allowing me time to write
My parents
for helping me to understand more about the Chinese
Toby Eady
for giving me his heart and his hand to help make this book
Esther Tyldesley
for a translation imbued with her experience of and feeling for China
Christine Slenczka
for bringing her knowledge of China to the first draft
Rebecca Carter
for her interest in understanding China and for her sensitive editing
MinWei Deng
for letting me know what younger people think about China
Chinese women
for making me feel proud of what I have done
and you
for reading and responding to this book
Contents
Prologue
1 My Journey Towards the Stories of Chinese Women
2 The Girl Who Kept a Fly as a Pet
3 The University Student
4 The Scavenger Woman
5 The Mothers Who Endured an Earthquake
6 What Chinese Women Believe
7 The Woman Who Loved Women
8 The Woman Whose Marriage Was Arranged by the Revolution
9 My Mother
10 The Woman Who Waited Forty-five Years
11 The Guomindang General’s Daughter
12 The Childhood I Cannot Leave Behind Me
13 The Woman Whose Father Does Not Know Her
14 A Fashionable Woman
15 The Women of Shouting Hill
Epilouge
Acknowledgements
Prologue
At nine o’clock on 3 November 1999, I was on my way home from teaching an evening class at London University’s School of Oriental and African Studies. As I walked out of Stamford Brook tube station into the dark autumnal night, I heard a rushing sound behind me. I had no time to react before someone hit me hard on the head and pushed me to the ground. Instinctively, I tightened my grip on my handbag, which contained the only copy of a manuscript I had just finished writing. But my assailant wasn’t deterred.
‘Give me your bag,’ he shouted again and again.
I struggled with a strength I had not known I possessed. In the darkness, I could not see a face. I was aware only that I was fighting a pair of strong yet invisible hands. I tried to protect myself and, at the same time, kick with my feet at where I thought his groin might be. He kicked back and I felt sharp bursts of pain in my back and legs, and the salty taste of blood in my mouth.
Passers-by started running towards us, shouting. Soon the man was surrounded by an angry crowd. When I staggered to my feet, I saw that he was over six feet tall.
Later, the police asked me why I had risked my life fighting for a bag.
Trembling and in pain, I explained, ‘It had my book in it.’
‘A book?’ a policeman exclaimed. ‘Is a book more important than your life?’
Of course, life is more important than a book. But in so many ways my book was my life. It was my testimony to the lives of Chinese women, the result of many years’ work as a journalist. I knew I had been foolish: if I had lost the manuscript, I could have tried to recreate it. However, I wasn’t sure that I could put myself through the extremes of feeling provoked by writing the book again. Reliving the stories of the women I had met had been painful, and it had been harder still to order my memories and find language adequate to express them. In fighting for that bag, I was defending my feelings, and the feelings of Chinese women. The book was the result of so many things which, once lost, could never be found again. When you walk into your memories, you are opening a door to the past; the road within has many branches, and the route is different every time.
1
My Journey Towards the Stories of Chinese Women
Early one spring morning in 1989, I rode my Flying Pigeon bicycle through the streets of Nanjing dreamin
g about my son PanPan. The green shoots on the trees, the clouds of frosty breath enveloping the other cyclists, the women’s silk scarves billowing in the spring wind, everything merged with thoughts of my son. I was bringing him up on my own, without the help of a man, and it was not easy caring for him as a working mother. Whatever journey I went on, though, long or short, even the quick ride to work, he accompanied me in spirit and gave me courage.
‘Hey, big-shot presenter, watch where you’re going,’ shouted a colleague as I wobbled into the compound of the radio and TV station where I worked.
Two armed policemen stood at the gates. I showed them my pass. Once inside, I would have to face further armed guards at the entrances to the offices and the studios. Security at the broadcasting station was extremely tight and workers were wary of the guards. A story circulated of a new soldier who fell asleep on night duty and was so keyed up that he killed the comrade who woke him.
My office was on the sixteenth floor of the forbidding, twenty-one-storey modern building. I preferred to climb the stairs rather than risk the unreliable lift, which broke down frequently. When I arrived at my desk, I realised I had left my bicycle key in the lock. Taking pity on me, a colleague offered to go and telephone down to the gatekeeper. This was not so easy since no junior employee at that time had a telephone and my colleague would have to go to the section head’s office to make the call. In the end, someone brought me up my key with my mail. Amidst the large pile of letters, one immediately caught my attention: the envelope had been made from the cover of a book and there was a chicken feather glued to it. According to Chinese tradition, a chicken feather is an urgent distress signal.
The letter was from a young boy, and had been sent from a village about 150 miles from Nanjing.
Most respected Xinran,
I listen to every one of your programmes. In fact, everyone in our village likes listening to them. But I am not writing to tell you how good your programme is; I am writing to tell you a secret.
It’s not really a secret, because everyone in the village knows. There is an old, crippled man of sixty here who recently bought a young wife. The girl looks very young – I think she must have been kidnapped. This happens a lot around here, but many of the girls escape later. The old man is afraid his wife will run off, so he has tied a thick iron chain around her. Her waist has been rubbed raw by the heavy chain – the blood has seeped through her clothes. I think it will kill her. Please save her.
Whatever you do, don’t mention this on the radio. If the villagers find out, they’ll drive my family away.
May your programme get better and better.
Your loyal listener,
Zhang Xiaoshuan
This was the most distressing letter I had received since I had started presenting my evening radio programme, Words on the Night Breeze, four months earlier. During the programme I discussed various aspects of daily life and used my own experiences to win the listeners’ trust and suggest ways of approaching life’s difficulties. ‘My name is Xinran,’ I had said at the beginning of the first broadcast. ‘“Xinran” means “with pleasure”. “Xin xin ran zhang kai le yan,” wrote Zhu Ziqing in a poem about spring: “With pleasure, Nature opened its eyes to new things.”’ The programme was a ‘new thing’ for everyone, myself included. I had only just become a presenter and I was trying to do something that hadn’t been done on the radio before.
Since 1949, the media had been the mouthpiece of the Party. State radio, state newspapers and, later, state television provided the only information Chinese people had access to, and they spoke with one identical voice. Communication with anyone abroad seemed as remote as a fairy tale. When Deng Xiaoping started the slow process of ‘opening up’ China in 1983, it was possible for journalists, if they were courageous, to try and make subtle changes to how they presented the news. It was also possible, although perhaps even more dangerous, to discuss personal issues in the media. In Words on the Night Breeze I was trying to open a little window, a tiny hole, so that people could allow their spirits to cry out and breathe after the gunpowder-laden atmosphere of the previous forty years. The Chinese author and philosopher Lu Xun once said, ‘The first person who tasted a crab must also have tried a spider, but realised that it was not good to eat.’ As I awaited the reaction of my listeners to the programme, I wondered whether they would think it was a crab or a spider. The number of enthusiastic letters that piled up on my desk convinced me that it was the former.
The letter I received from the young boy Zhang Xiaoshuan was the first that had appealed for my practical help and it threw me into confusion. I reported it to my section head and asked what I should do. He suggested indifferently that I contact the local Public Security Bureau. I put a call through and poured out Zhang Xiaoshuan’s story.
The police officer on the other end of the line told me to calm down. ‘This sort of thing happens a lot. If everyone reacted like you, we’d be worked to death. Anyway, it’s a hopeless case. We have piles of reports here, and our human and financial resources are limited. I would be very wary of getting mixed up in it if I were you. Villagers like that aren’t afraid of anyone or anything; even if we turned up there, they’d torch our cars and beat up our officers. They will go to incredible lengths to make sure that their family lines are perpetuated so as not to sin against their ancestors by failing to produce an heir.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘Are you telling me you are not going to take responsibility for this girl?’
‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘But there’s no need to hurry, we can take it step by step.’
‘You can’t leave someone to die step by step!’
The policeman chuckled. ‘No wonder they say that policemen fight fire and journalists start fire. What was your name again?’
‘Xin . . . ran,’ I said through gritted teeth.
‘Yes, yes, Xinran, good name. All right, Xinran, come over. I’ll help you.’ He sounded as if he was doing me a favour rather than performing his duty.
I went straight to his office. He was a typical Chinese police officer: robust and alert, with a shifty expression.
‘In the countryside,’ he said, ‘the heavens are high and the emperor is far away.’ In his opinion the law had no power there. The peasants feared only the local authorities who controlled their supplies of pesticide, fertiliser, seeds and farming tools.
The policeman was right. In the end, it was the head of the village agricultural supplies depot who managed to save the girl. He threatened to cut off the villagers’ supply of fertiliser if they did not release her. Three policemen took me to the village in a police car. When we arrived, the village head had to clear the way for us through the villagers, who were shaking their fists and cursing us. The girl was only twelve years old. We took her away from the old man, who wept and swore bitterly. I dared not ask after the schoolboy who had written to me. I wanted to thank him, but the police officer told me that if the villagers found out what he had done, they might murder him and his family.
Witnessing the power of the peasants first-hand, I began to understand how Mao had defeated Chiang Kai-shek and his British and American weapons with their help.
The girl was sent back to her family in Xining – a twenty-two-hour train journey from Nanjing – accompanied by a police officer and someone from the radio station. It turned out that her parents had run up a debt of nearly 10,000 yuan searching for her.
I received no praise for the rescue of this girl, only criticism for ‘moving the troops about and stirring up the people’ and wasting the radio station’s time and money. I was shaken by these complaints. A young girl had been in danger and yet going to her rescue was seen as ‘exhausting the people and draining the treasury’. Just what was a woman’s life worth in China?
This question began to haunt me. Most of the people who wrote to me at the radio station were women. Their letters were often anonymous, or written under an a
ssumed name. Much of what they said came as a profound shock to me. I had believed that I understood Chinese women. Reading their letters, I realised how wrong my assumption had been. My fellow women were living lives and struggling with problems I had not dreamed of.
Many of the questions they asked me related to their sexuality. One woman wanted to know why her heart beat faster when she accidentally bumped into a man on the bus. Another asked why she broke out into a sweat when a man touched her hand. For so long, all discussion of sexual matters had been forbidden and any physical contact between a man and woman who were not married had led to public condemnation – being ‘struggled against’ – or even imprisonment. Even between a husband and wife ‘pillow talk’ could be taken as evidence of delinquent behaviour, and, in family quarrels, people would often threaten to denounce their partners to the police for having indulged in it. As a result, two generations of Chinese had grown up with their natural instincts in confusion. I myself was once so ignorant that, even at the age of twenty-two, I refused to hold hands with a male teacher at a bonfire party for fear of getting pregnant. My understanding of conception was gleaned from a line in a book: ‘They held hands under the light of the moon . . . In spring they had a bouncing baby son.’ I found myself wanting to know much more about the intimate lives of Chinese women and decided to start researching their different cultural backgrounds.
Old Chen was the first person I told about my project. He had been a journalist for a very long time and was highly respected. It was said that even Nanjing’s mayor came to him for advice. I often consulted him about my work, out of deference to his seniority, but also to draw on his considerable experience. This time, however, his reaction surprised me. He shook his head, which was so bald you couldn’t tell where his scalp ended and his face began, and said, ‘Naive!’
I was taken aback. Chinese people consider baldness a sign of wisdom. Was I wrong? Why was it so naive to want to understand Chinese women?
I told a friend who worked at the university about Old Chen’s warning.