Return to the Motherland
Dongxing Detention Center
We were taken to the border checkpoint for vaccination. Then a very young Peoples Liberation Army (PLA) solider with a stony face sat behind a small table and registered us. At my turn, I reported my former unit as the Kunming Medical College. The soldier glanced at me with some surprise but said nothing. From there we were taken to the Dongxing Detention Center in Guangxi Province and housed in three cells, two for the men and one for the women. Our cells included a urine bucket, boards laid over a wooden frame for sleeping, and just one entry passage. Most detainees were repatriated from Vietnam, some were so called odd-job migrants or wanderers from rural areas, and a few were local thieves or other rogues. I had heard that the detention centers in Guangxi Province were more brutal than those in Guangdong. Was it not true that two groups of repatriates were randomly shot causing the Vietnamese government to suspend repatriation temporarily? I also heard that when a supervisor of Dongxing Detention Center heard a noise in a cell he shot randomly from outside and broke a detainee's leg. In contrast, Guangdong was relatively open and also relatively civilized. I also remained worried about something else: Was fleeing to Vietnam regarded as "violation of border regulations" or "treason" in Kunming? If I were taken away by the police from here, it would mean my case had been upgraded. Fretting over these concerns led to no answers, so I thought it best to forget them. Everything already was exposed. Unlike previously being caught simply fleeing to Hong Kong, I had used fake ID and was always on tenterhooks, afraid of exposure. Whatever was to happen, God would provide a way for me. That same day we were questioned by the head of the Detention Center. He asked for more details, including parents and family members. I answered everything truthfully even including overseas relations. Hearing that I had such relatives, the head showed some surprise. Each morning we assembled outside. Sometimes the supervisor gave a few admonitions but did not read the "Highest Directives" or sing the "Songs of Quotations". I immediately felt the difference from before. Afterwards, we went in groups of three or four to the latrines, shielded by mats on the slope. Each person was limited to 10 minutes, no problem for me. Some others were constipated from nervous tension and unable to defecate. The bucket in the cell was allowed only for urination. How many days could one endure without a bowl movement? Time passed and nothing eventful happened. The overall situation had indeed eased. No policeman from Kunming came to take me away, so it seemed that my case was just like anyone else fleeing Dongxing to Vietnam, simply a "violation of the border regulations”. This was very important to me because it meant that I had no file in the police records, and my case was not "treason" but belonged to the so-called "internal contradictions among the people”. My anxious heart gradually settled down, although I was still worried about unknowns in the future. Except for the mental pressure of the unknown, other aspects of my situation were more agreeable. There was no difficulty in language, no more Chinese-Vietnamese racial conflict and meals were better. Being close to Beibu Gulf, we had small herring almost every day. I had been in many detention centers and the meals here were the best. The supervisors were rather respectful of me but not to everyone, especially not to those who could not speak Cantonese or the so-called "odd-job migrants" from other provinces. Just as in Guangdong, strangers were bullied and rebuked for trifling things. Our detention center often arranged some kind of labor. Detainees who volunteered were given a bit more to eat, so many were willing to participate. I sometimes joined them, usually to carry sand, or stones or other building materials. One afternoon, all the detainees returning from labor looking very serious. I hadn’t gone that day and was told that one of our cellmates and a man in the next cell from Fusui had a quarrel with a supervisor when they were carrying stones. The supervisor took a club and was about to beat them. But the Fusui man threatened resistance by brandishing a bamboo pole. The supervisor held up his hands. We were worried that something further might happen that evening. Sure enough, soon after dinner, the doors of both cells were opened. Two devil-like supervisors came into my cell. One ordered out the man who had carried the stone with the "Fusui guy" and told him to kneel. The supervisor asked a question or two, and then kicked his right foot sharply against the man’s chest. He screamed, fell back and hit his head on the edge of a plank. The supervisor then stepped forward, kicked his lower belly, and gave him several thumps with a club. The man screamed, his face covered with blood. All of us remained silent. We could hear screams from the "Fusui guy" in the next cell continuing for a while. At the other end of the detention center, a prisoner was kept in solitary confinement. It was said that he had been sentenced to death after killing a county official with a dozen chops from a kitchen cleaver. A former supervisor was the relative of the dead official and he took the advantage of the relationship to have the prisoner brought to the detention center. This supervisor tied the prisoner’s hands behind his back, shackled his feet, and tied his penis to prevent urination. After a day or two, the inmate screamed in misery as his bladder swelled like a big pumpkin. Later, another supervisor helped this inmate loosen the tie, but his hands and feet remained shackled. He wore no pants even in cold weather, so to permit urination and bowl movements. At meal time the tray was put in under the door; the prisoner had to lie prone on the floor and lick his food like a dog. Once, when the supervisor who had tortured him came in to pick up the urine bucket, the man suddenly bit down firmly on the supervisor's arm. The supervisor cried out in pain and slammed the man’s head again and again. Leaving to get a hammer, the supervisor returned to knock out all the man’s teeth one by one. Afterwards at meal time, the prisoner had to come to the window and have porridge poured in his mouth through a bamboo tube. I shivered all over but not from cold. One day, a supervisor tossed in a newspaper with the news of Zhou Enlai's death. Several fellow detainees gave it a glance but without much reaction. Dr. Wang of Zhanjiang who was caught back from Vietnam said ironically: “Anyway, as Chairman Mao has much merit, Premier Zhou has also much merit.” There was veiled sarcasm in his words and we responded with knowing smiles. Another morning, a supervisor again tossed us a newspaper, this one publishing Mao’s new poetry proclaiming that "Everywhere is the joy of spring,…". All of us sneered at it; then when we saw the phrase "Don't fart,......" we looked at each other and laughed in spite of trying not to. A fellow-detainee whispered: “Probably the head of the detention center with full-mouthed abuse could also write such a masterpiece.” In all fairness, although the head liked to speak in foul language, he was not necessarily abusive. Another supervisor named Xie who was possibly in charge of dietary or general affairs, was always friendly. The crows are not necessarily all black; there are good men even in the evil world. After some days, a supervisor said to me: "You reported to Kunming Medical College, but it does not recognize you." I didn't understand what he said and asked, "How doesn't it recognize me?" He replied, "The Medical College has fired you already." "Then you send me back to Guangzhou,” I blurted out. “My family is in Guangzhou. I applied to resign from Medical College many years ago." That Kunming Medical College did not recognize me was exactly what I had wished for. If the Medical College had approved my resignation and my registered residence was moved back to Guangzhou (It was not easy but I would persist), I would not have so many worries being sent back to Kunming when I went fleeing to Hong Komg, and later would not have been driven into a corner and fled to Vietnam. However, according to regulations, even if Kunming Medical College had fired me, as long as my original registered residence was there, I still had to be sent back to Kunming. After ten more days, my name was called to go there; the first stop would be Nanning. Nanning Detention Center A total of seven detainees, six men and one woman, were sent to Nanning. Every two men were buckled in a pair of handcuffs, and the woman was spared. We boarded a long-distance bus. The regular passengers sat in front and showed no surprise at seeing our group in the rear. During the long, bumpy ride, I got severe motion sickness, including repeated vomiting, pallor and a cold sweat. The woman detainee said she was afraid I would die. I forced a smile and said, "My inexorable doom has not been completed, and I cannot die yet!” The Nanning Detention Center was housed in an abandoned hospital, a two-story building with a star shape but now surround by high, barbed-wired walls. Only a small portion of the space was used for detention and the rest remained vacant. We had assembly in the square every couple of days to listen newspaper readings. There were often more than a hundred detainees, most of them odd-job migrants or wanderers; others were gangsters, thieves or prostitutes. During such an assembly I met Mr. Chen from Guangzhou who was also repatriated from Vietnam. I requested him to take a message to my parents and family when he returned to Guangzhou. Since I had been caught in Vietnam, my family heard nothing from me for a couple of months and was almost in despair. After getting his message, they would know I was alive and in a detention center. They still would be worried about my future, but at least they would have some hope. Sometimes I had an opportunity to go out to labor which meant I could eat a bit more, exercise my body, and enjoy the sunshine. All that would somewhat benefit my weakened body. We went out either to help the commune production team, or to work on the detention center’s land, planting corn, sugarcane, or vegetables. The supervisor who led us to labor was named Tian. He was more humane and rarely shouted at or scolded us. He frankly admitted that detainees did not have enough to eat, so he did not force us to complete the quota of labor. Once again I felt that there were still good men in that evil time. Once we went to help the production team cut sugarcane, and were allowed to eat the cane when we took break. This rare opportunity not surprisingly resulted in overindulgence, including distended and upset stomachs. It was my first experience that drinking too much sugar water could cause bloat. Once after labor, I was assigned with another detainee to pack the tools. Returning after dinner time, we were sent to the kitchen to eat our usual portions of rice with vegetables. But there in the kitchen we spotted a pile of raw rice stems in a corner. So we began peeling and eating them quickly, one by one! Back in my cell, I tossed about all night with a stomachache because the raw rice stems proved indigestible. The other fellow was even worse and had colic and diarrhea, his urine bucket overflowing and stinking up the whole cell. It was midnight, so no one could be called. I told him to drink plenty of water, otherwise excessive dehydration would be dangerous. I also did acupressure for him: Zusanli, and a point on the medial tibia at about the upper third (I called it the "belly point"). It's very sensitive; I pressed it slightly and he would yell. But the pain was quickly relieved and the diarrhea also gradually diminished. After a few applications of acupressure, the next day he didn’t need to see a doctor. Two "odd-job migrants” were sent to our cell. One was a teenager and looked like a student. I called him Xiao Li. He came from Gansu Province to Guangxi to do odd jobs as a plasterer’s aide but was detained as an "odd-job migrant". He brought two books of Traditional Chinese Medicine with him and had written a lot of notes on them.