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    The next day a supervisor interrogated me. He ordered me to squat against the ed-ge of a small table. From the beginning he doubted my fake name and address. Wh-en asked a question or two about the farm and I could not answer correctly, he burst into anger and kicked my lower belly. I yelled“ouch!” and fell to the g-round. Then he picked up a piece of wood, beat me fiercely and yelled: "Be fake-d, be faked!" I covered my head with my hands, dodged and cried out.He stopped his inquiry, wrote something on a document and pushed me back to the cell. Thos-e nearby witnessed the commotion and showed sympathy for me. Someone encouraged me to look for a chance to escape, saying: "Those 'kaidai' (Cantonese curse wor-d, meaning bad guy), are evil enough,but also are very lazy and loose in survei-llance."I was much confused: What should I do after being sent back to Guangzho-u? What fake name and address should I provide to them? Once I was exposed, a c-ruel beating was inevitable. Yet my real address could not be revealed if I wan-ted to escape being escorted back to Kunming. There I might be tortured to deat-h by the "mass dictatorship”. I dared not to think any longer.Escape and Recap-ture They questioned me no further during the next few days; apparently there w-as nothing more they wanted to know. So I just waited until there was a large e-nough group to be sent back to Guangzhou. One day, an old mason came to repair the kitchen roof. The kitchen was on the left side of the square, and the side door leading to the outside was open. Our cell was about a 10-meter distance to the kitchen and was not closed during the day.A fellow detainee named Tang was a zhiqing of a local farm and was also caught back from fleeing to Hong Kong. W-hen he spotted the kitchen side door open, he urged me to escape through the ki-tchen. I hesitated, my heart pounding wildly. Tang pushed me: Quick! quick! I g-ot up and went to the kitchen, nervously eyeing the old mason on the roof. The mason glanced back but turned his head away, pretending not to see me.I hurried-ly slipped out the door but had walked only 10 paces before abruptly encounteri-ng a supervisor coming back from outside. "Hum, escape!" he yelled and immediat-ely forced my right hand behind the back and pushed me back to the cell.I panic-ked and went almost limp, huddling up to await a cruel beating. Drawing on my p-rofessional knowledge, I thought about how to protect important body parts from being injured.However, minutes passed, then hours, and still nothing happened.F-ellow detainees told me: Fortunately you came across a supervisor on duty willi-ng to let you off easy; if it were the "green face monkey" (the most vicious supervisor), he would definitely beat you half to death. I shivered and shivered again, feeling lucky and even grateful to the kindly supervisor. There were still good people even in an evil world. Hauled in to join us were two guys in their teens speaking Mandarin, one tall and one short. They admitted frankly to being thieves and boasted of their "income.” It turned out that their families suffe-red a drastic misfortune; their parents either died or were arrested for labor reform. The lads wandered the streets and became pickpockets. They had been in countless detention centers including Urumqi, Xinjiang, and everywhere except T-ibet. The short guy peeked out the window of the back wall several times. Outsi-de were vegetable fields. He whispered to us: "We can dig a hole through the wa-ll under the window and escape." I was taken aback and dared not say anything. The two really started to do the work. Each time after the meal they kept a bow-l of water, then one stood near the door to keep a lookout, the other splashed water to wet the clay wall and dug at it with a spoon or chopsticks. Above the hole, they nailed two bamboo sticks into the wall, tied a string and hung a tow-el to cover it. After two days they had made a large enough hole to escape. But they didn’t sneak out that night and I wondered why. The next day, a superviso-r came and sneered cunningly: "Hum! Why didn't anyone sneak out last night? I t-ook a pitchfork and waited outside a long time to stab someone’s neck, but nob-ody appeared!"Everyone was scared to death.The supervisor yelled: "Who did it? Confess yourself right away!"Nobody uttered a word.The supervisor pointed to th-e tall and short guys: "Aren't you?"But both two denied it, the short guy swear-ing loudly.The supervisor did not seem certain, looked at them suspiciously, an-d then looked at us. He said angrily: "I’ll punish you later!" and walked away.But nothing happened later. The hole was blocked in the afternoon.Everyone bro-ke into a sweat with fright and whispered: "Fortunately it’s not that greeface monkey, or else we would not be so lucky, even if all of us are not at fault." One evening 10 days later a whistle suddenly was blown and all detainees came o-ut to the square,waiting to be called to board the night train to Guangzhou.The detainees were clustered in two rows. The area was dimly lit and there was a hu-bbub of voices. Those whose names were called went to the left side near the ex-it. Two or three supervisors were busy there. Tang urged me again to escape, po-inting to a low wall 10 meters away on the right and said it would not be diffi-cult to scale. Looking at the wall, I could see it was a bit too high for me to climb over by myself. Tang said he could boost me. I asked: Then what will you do? Tang said he would only be sent back to the farm, nothing serious, and no need to escape. My heart beat violently. It really was an opportunity, but my recent failure made me reluctant. Hesitating, I suddenly heard my pseudonym called. I almost jumped out of my skin, but sadly said good bye to Tang and trudged to the left exit.‘You Faked, So You Suffer’Placed aboard the night train, the ne-xt morning I returned to Shahe Detention Center along with a dozen fellow detai-nees. I was preoccupied by many troubles. The first problem was to deal with th-e inquiry: What should I give as my name and address? Another fake could result in disbelief and a confirmation letter being dispatched. A reply of "no such pe-rson" would result in my physical torture. What to do? I really was at the end of my tether.Eating without relish and sleeping restlessly while thinking hard for a day, I came up only with an"inferior tactic" unlikely to be accepted: I would fake my home as being back on the farm in Shaoguan,saying that since I was gone from the farm for four years, they had canceled my registered residence.At the inquiry the next day, the supervisor certainly didn't believe my story, but fortunately did not punish me, just put me in the narrow "Guangzhou cell" (a cell special for detainees of Guangzhou, next to the inquiry rooms to prevent the locals from escape). The rationale for thi-s: “You faked, so we let you suffer the ‘three liang’ penalty and see how lon-g you can endure.”The flood of the fleeing people caught back were too numerous to trace one by one. In fact, the Shahe Detention Center was full; the Guangzhou cell was even packed. The first comers took places to lie down, while the late comers could only sit or stand. One evening when a patrolling supervisor saw through the window two detainees s
     tanding, he asked harshly why. When they said there was no plac to sit, the sup
     ervisor could do nothing and went away silently.In such crowded conditions fric
     tion was inevitable, and detainees might quarrel loudly over sleeping places or minor things. But they dared not fight, knowing that the conseq uences of a fli-ght would be a violent beating by the guards.A fine art teacher from a high sch-ool painted birds, fish or flowers on the poker cards. A supervisor saw them th-rough the window and declared that those pictures were "feudal, capitalistic, a-nd revisionist”. He demanded, "Who painted it?" No one admitting it, the super-visor arbitrarily chose someone. As this victim exited the cell the supervisor lashed him several times with thick iron chains. The man cried "ouch, ouch!" bu-t still refused to reveal who painted it, only saying, "He who painted it had b-etter come out by himself!" The supervisor seemed to understand that he had las-hed the wrong person, and left.A man wearing a suit and leather shoes carrying a luxury suitcase was sent in. He was fleeing to Hong Kong by bo-at but was cau-ght by the Hong Kong British coast patrol and sent to the border police statio--n. His family in Hong Kong came to see him immediately. They broug-ht him food and a change of clothes, telling him they would bail him out as soo-n as possib-le. Unexpectedly, he was deported that afternoon. He told us that af-ter countl-ess hardships, he had managed to elude the Chinese militia and border guards, o-nly to end up being deported by the British Hong Kong authority. His h-eart was torn by this terrible twist of fate.
    [ 这个贴子最后由冰云在2020-3-2 20:21:17编辑过 ]
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      Persecution of professionals

      The cultural revolution has impacted all sectors of Chinese society, but the first one that suffered the most is the cultural people, professionals and intellectuals. The goal of the Communist Party is to "decapitate cultural life". One of Mao Zedong's outstanding slogans is: "the more knowledge, the more reactionary" in an invisible way makes his victims dehumanized, pushing a large number of intellectuals to unprecedented suffering abyss. Countless talents and scholars have been forced to risk trying to flee their country of love and dedication. At Shahe detention center, I met several senior intellectuals who fled to Hong Kong. An artist from Shanghai, in persecution and despair, heard that many people from Guangdong fled to Hong Kong. So he came to Guangzhou to find a way. After that, he spent all his money and still didn't know what to do, so he had to pay a low price of 20 cents for each one at the entrance of Huanghuagang park. He was detained and sent to a detention center as a part-time migrant without a business license.
      The artist has not taken any action to escape. He was outraged by his detention and went on a hunger strike for "walking on the land of his motherland.". But does the Communist regime allow anyone to protest? They beat him hard, and then put him in prison where he continued to fast in Guangzhou. On the fourth day, he was going to die and was seriously infected. Persuaded by other detainees, he finally regained his diet and reluctantly resisted his grievances and anger.
      Type F

      原文:

      Persecuting the Professionals

      The Cultural Revolution scourged all levels of Chinese society but the first to bear the brunt and
      suffer most were people of culture, the professionals and intellectuals. Communist authorities aimed "to
      decapitate cultural life”. One of Mao's prominent slogans, "the more knowledge, the more reactionary"
      dehumanized his victims in an invisible way, pushing a vast number of intellectuals into an
      unprecedented abyss of misery. Countless talents and scholars were forced to rush into danger as they
      attempted to flee the motherland to which they once gave their love and devotion. In Shahe Detention
      Center, I met several senior intellectuals who were caught back from fleeing to Hong Kong.
      An artist from Shanghai, being persecuted and in desperation, heard that many people from
      Guangdong had fled to Hong Kong. So he came to Guangzhou in an attempt to find the way. After
      exhausting all his money and still clueless, he was forced to support himself by sketching portraits at
      the low price of 20 cents each at the entrance of Huanghuagang Park. He was detained and sent to the
      detention center as an odd-job migrant without a business license.
      This artist had not yet taken any action of fleeing. He was indignant for being detained just
      because of "walking on the land of the motherland" and protested with a hunger strike. But did the
      Communist regime allow anyone to protest? They gave him a brutal beating and then put him in the
      Guangzhou cell where he continued the hunger strike. On the fourth day, he was dying and his wounds
      were infected badly. Persuaded by fellow detainees, he finally resumed eating and reluctantly
      swallowed his grievances and anger.
      Feng Yixin, a technician at a well-known chemical plant in Nanjing, was a small and thin man
      who didn't talk much and looked depressed. He was caught for fleeing to Hong Kong but his real name
      was leaked accidentally by his peers. Nanjing was different from Guangzhou and he was worried about
      being sent back. He also suspected me of a faked name but did not ask. Gradually we began to
      converse.
      I learned that he had worked in the technology department and specialized in breaking
      commercial secrets of foreign commodities. Two years before he succeeded in breaking the secret of a
      German product to increase its yield by 20 percent. But the Party branch secretary stole the technician’s
      credit and made a pretext to suppress him. The Cultural Revolution starting, he became an active target.
      Finally, he went to Guangzhou with a plan to flee to Hong Kong. He told me helplessly: "No way, if
      you are not a Party member, you are always suppressed. Good things you have no share in, a difficult
      job is always yours. Even so, you work hard in vain. At every annual appraisal you are criticized ‘more
      professional than red.’ When the political campaign comes, your credit becomes guilt. We're not the
      kind of material, will not curry favor with the Party, will not step on someone's shoulder to climb up." I
      certainly agreed.
      A few days later Feng's name was called abruptly. Just as he stepped out the door, he was "Ka"
      handcuffed. It turned out that Nanjing had sent someone to escort him back. I was shocked and sad,
      watching until he was out of sight.
      Would I be escorted to Kunming the same way one day?
      Dr. Shen of Radiology, XX Hospital of Zhongshan (Sun Yat-sen) Medical College, was
      intercepted by a patrol boat during his fleeing to Hong Kong. He told me about the well-known
      radiologist and oncologist Xie Zhiguang, who took the lead in establishing the Cancer Hospital of
      Southern China and the Institute for Cancer Research. Assisted by overseas friends he imported a
      cobalt 60 radiotherapy machine that was still rare in China at that time. In the Cultural Revolution Xie
      was labeled "the reactionary academic authority” was denounced and treated brutally. Suffering from
      liver cancer, he applied for medical treatment but had to obtain approval from Red Guard Headquarters.
      Armed Red Guards escorted him to see a doctor. As Xie approached, the doctor stood up, read "Highest
      Directives" and shouted "sweep all cow demons and snake spirits!” and then examined Xie. Xie died
      not long after.
      Dr. Shen also told me about Dr. Kuang Gongdao, a famous thoracic surgeon who returned from
      Germany. (I had read Kuang’s several articles published in "Chinese Journal of Surgery"). He failed in
      fleeing to Hong Kong three times, once hidden in a big vegetable basket in a Polish freighter, but still
      was found by the inspector. In fact, he had been secretly monitored already.
      Dr. Shen said that although was not a noted figure in his department he still was forced to flee.
      Another fellow detainee was a doctor of the First People’s Hospital of Guangzhou whose name I
      have forgotten. He told us that Dr. Chen, the head of Internal Medicine, committed suicide after being
      denounced and beaten terribly. He left a note: "A scholar can be killed but not be disgraced.”
      A chemical engineer went fleeing to Hong Kong on a small boat and was intercepted by the patrol
      boat. He had been honored as a valued worker for inventing an efficient phosphorus-based detergent
      and even was granted an interview by the Governor Chen Yu. In the Cultural Revolution this gifted
      engineer was labeled a "reactionary academic authority" and his credit turned into shame.
      Mr. Guo was an economic statistician who worked at a provincial organization. I asked him:
      "What is the future of the current economic situation?" Guo made a wry smile: "When all the data are
      given by the authority, what real results can you figure out? Even if the result is not good, can't you
      revise it again an again until they are satisfied? It's forever 'the situation is good, and gets better and
      better!’" (a popular propaganda phrase at that time).
      Zhou Hong was a researcher at an institute in Shanghai and was squeezed out a few years earlier.
      Having returned to Guangzhou for some time, he was relegated to work at a street service station
      producing electrical parts for living. He was unworried about his fate after release. After all, the service
      station was already at the bottom. There were so many people caught fleeing to Hong Kong, most
      would be reprimanded only, and it was no big deal to be "under the mass surveillance" for a short time.
      I envied his situation. If I could resign in Kunming and move my registered residence back to
      Guangzhou, and get any work whatever at a service station, then I wouldn’t have to worry about being
      sent back to Kunming. However, that was almost impossible. Even if I quit my job, it would be very
      difficult to move my registered residence back to Guangzhou, because the administrative division level
      of Kunming was lower than that of Guangzhou. Moving of registered residence was only permitted
      from higher to lower level.
      After I left the detention center, I visited Zhou Hong and saw several articles he had published in
      domestic journals. More than ten years later, Zhou Hong emigrated to the United States. He soon
      earned his doctorate and continued his academic research. How sad that a gifted scientist was forced to
      produce his fruits not for the benefit of China but in another land.
      I never expect to meet so many learned intellectuals in the Guangzhou cell. In fact, I could name
      even more. We talked among ourselves: Being poor and underdeveloped, China had nothing to
      export, but forced a lot of senior intellectuals to "export."
      On the Verge of Collapse
      The detention center provided just three liang of rice twice a day. Day after day on such meager
      fare, I experienced a growing hunger and was becoming thinner and weaker. After two months I begin
      to develop an oral ulcer. I knew very well it was caused by lack of vitamin B especially vitamin B2, but
      what could I do?
      I considered asking to see a doctor. The detention center had a medical office, but unless you had
      a high fever and were unable to eat two meals, they would not allow you to see a doctor. After a few
      days, I had a high fever and could not finish the meal. Fear seized me. Whether this was due to lack of
      B2 or infection, it would be dangerous to go without treatment.
      Finally I requested to see a doctor. After fellow detainees interceded for me, I got approved. The
      doctor hastily diagnosed it as just a “cold”. I dared not reveal my identity as a medical professional, but
      showed him my oral ulcer. The doctor gave me a knowing glance and seemed to suspect that I also was
      a doctor. He certainly knew that detainees included persons of such occupation, so quietly prescribed
      vitamin B2 and B complex for me.
      The next day after medication, the fever receded gradually. I knew that if this disease developed a
      secondary infection, because of delayed treatment or misdiagnosis, I could very likely lose my life.
      After I left the detention center, my mother later said to me that, learning indirectly I was sick, she
      really felt like her heart was stabbed!
      The detention center did not give the detainees haircuts. This was no problem for detainees who
      were caught and sent away shortly, but for those detained a long time, their hair grew until they looked
      like wild men. Fortunately one newcomer was a barber who agreed to give a simple haircut in return
      for a spoonful of rice. How sad! Just a spoonful of rice made his haircut so cheap that it probably broke
      the world record! Although I was hungry enough to be nearly dizzy, after a little hesitation I still had a
      haircut. At mealtime, the barber kindly took only a half spoonful of rice from me.
      Now struggling on the verge of death every day, how long could I go on? Could I procrastinate
      until I figured a way out? I felt completely hopeless and helpless and nearly collapsed. But my
      reasoning told me that I couldn't let go! Once I was escorted back to Kunming, all would be lost. Pray
      God to help me!
      [ 这个贴子最后由冰云在2020-3-14 16:03:18编辑过 ]
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        Family assistance work
        This time, after we started running away, my family was anxiously waiting to receive the pre arranged message from Hong Kong: "XX is discharged". Several times later, in the next few days, they realized that something had gone wrong and instead worried about our safety: Would the strong southern wind make the ship crash that night? In those days, it was not uncommon for news of capsizing and burial to escape to Hong Kong. Fortunately, the family soon received news that my sister's accomplice had been released earlier, knowing that we were in detention. We're still alive! My sister is an educated youth. Her registered permanent residence is in a commune in Xinxing County. They went to the county with the other two detainees and released them. They returned to Guangzhou immediately. My sister made a lot of friends in the detention house. Back in Guangzhou, she and her family soon began to try to rescue me. After many efforts, she finally met a supervisor who took the detainees to the workplace.  My family and supervisor made a plan: first, instruct me to forge an address. Second, I will be transferred to the dispatch department through inquiry, and then apply for going out to work under friendly supervision. Third, the supervisor will find a chance for me to escape. The morning before dinner, a supervisor came to the window of Guangzhou cell and called: "Zhou Zhicheng (pseudonym), I'll give you a letter." He gave me the letter but didn't leave at once. I took the letter out of the open envelope. It was my mother's handwriting: "A Cheng, you can go back to Hongxing farm, Qingyuan County. You've left


        原文:
        Family Rescue Efforts
        This time, after we started fleeing, my family anxiously waited each day to receive a telegram
        from Hong Kong – the prearranged code message: "XX discharged from the hospital”. After a few
        days, realizing things had gone wrong, they turned to fearing for our safety: Would the strong south
        wind that night cause the boat to be wrecked? In those days, news of capsizing and burial at sea for
        those fleeing to Hong Kong was not rare.
        Fortunately, the family soon received a message from my sister’s fellow detainee who was
        released earlier and knew we were at the detention center. We were still alive! My sister was a zhiqing,
        her registered residence in a commune of Xinxing County. Along with two other detainees, they were
        released after arriving in the county, and they immediately came back to Guangzhou.
        My sister made many friends in the detention center. Coming back to Guangzhou, she and the
        family quickly began attempts to rescue me. After many efforts she finally got to know a supervisor
        who led detainees out to labor.
        My family and the supervisor drew up a plan: First, instruct me to fake an address. Second, after
        passing the inquiry, I would be transferred to the Sending Section, then apply for going out to labor
        under the friendly supervisor. Third, the supervisor would find an opportunity to let me run away.
        One morning before the meal, a supervisor came to the window of Guangzhou cell and called:
        "Zhou Zhicheng (my pseudonym), a letter for you." He gave me the letter but didn't leave immediately.
        I took the letter from the opened envelope; it was my mother's handwriting: "A Cheng, you can go back
        to Hongxing farm of Qingyuan County. You have left the farm for several years, the registered
        residence was canceled. We have talked with the farm and they agree to accept you back. Mom".
        However, at the end of the letter there was a few words in pencil: "I will help you" which were not my
        mother's handwriting, apparently added later.
        I was puzzled and looked at the supervisor. He smiled slyly and walked away.
        I secretly erased the penciled words and tried to find out what they might mean. Although I did
        not understand the whole plan, I knew this much: My family was trying to rescue, and a supervisor
        would help me. My depression and anxiety began to relieve. Good! Finally the long suffering turned to
        hope. Three liang rice in the evening meal tasted great, and sleep at that night was comfortable and
        with pleasant dreams.
        Panic Stricken
        The next morning after assembly, I just wanted to request an inquiry to report my “real” address,
        but saw through the window the supervisor who handed me the letter yesterday walking on the large
        square. A policeman approached and quickly handcuffed him.
        I gasped and paled, watching the police to escort the supervisor away.
        Suddenly my mind was in turmoil and my heart raced. Was yesterday’s secret revealed? Would
        the next one handcuffed be me? Would all be lost?
        Time elapsed in seconds, minutes, hours, as my heart stretched tightly like a bowstring. Even a
        trifling noise outside the window would make me jump with alarm. I feared that my name would be
        suddenly called, the door opened, and handcuffs slapped on!
        However, nothing happened and I didn't know why. The supervisor’s arrest must have been
        because of other matters, and he didn't reveal me.
        My heart grew heavy and the old frustration seized me again; the chance of rescue was gone.
        Of course, I dared not request an inquiry to report to XX farm of Qingyuan County as my
        mother's letter said. Just a few minutes could have made the difference! If only I had gone a few
        minutes earlier to report, and then been escorted to Qingyuan, what would have happened?
        Another concern was being asked why I didn't report the “real” address as stated in the letter,
        because the letter had been opened and checked first.
        Fortunately I wasn’t asked. So many detainees came in and out every day, perhaps they didn't care
        what my mother's letter said, giving me the tacit message: You didn't want to report, let you suffer
        "three liang" rice, see how long could you stand?
        God Blessed and People Helped
        My family being in a quandary, a friend suggested that I report my address as being back in
        Xingning. My mother again contacted my Fourth Aunt. Stunned, Fourth Aunt found the situation
        difficult to comprehend. She recalled that Yong An and the brigade security agent Li Fu had already
        rescued me once but, due to Yong An carelessly leaking it, Li Fu almost got into trouble. Obviously,
        Fourth Aunt could no longer request their help. Who else might help? Fourth Aunt was baffled about
        what to do if I were sent back.
        Fourth Aunt had stomach disease. Her condition now was aggravated by worrying about this
        difficulty. She went to buy Weishuping, a stomachache reliever, and unexpectedly met a friend Hong
        Jin. She remembered that his son Qingxiang was working at the County grain and oil section, so she
        asked Hong Jin for help.
        Twenty years before, my father had saved Qingxiang’s life. That winter, there had been a
        meningitis epidemic in the Xingning area. Meningitis was a even more serious infectious disease then
        as now. Five-year-old Qingxiang was infected. Hong Jin had no money for treatment and waited with
        resignation for his son’s death.
        One Sunday, Hong Jin went to the church as usual to sell cooked pig blood and snails. When he
        saw my grandfather coming in, he spoke tearfully to him of his son’s condition. My grandfather helped
        Hong Jin have Qingxiang admitted to the County Public Hospital where my father was the dean.
        My father did his best in treatment and finally snatched Qingxiang from the jaws of death. My
        father waived a portion of the medical expenses and my grandfather contributed an additional sum.
        Hong Jin was deeply moved and later became a Catholic.
        So when Fourth Aunt talked with Hong Jin, Hong Jin immediately agreed to talk with Qingxiang.
        Unfortunately, Qingxiang said he knew nobody in my detention center and to ask favors there could
        cause trouble. But next day Hong Jin told Fourth Aunt that Qingxiang had asked a friend to contact
        supervisor Cheng who had helped me the last time.
        Cheng said the new head was very hard to deal with, so the path ahead remained difficult. Fourth
        Aunt had only this life-saving straw, so she begged Qingxiang to lobby Cheng, promising a handsome
        reward. Cheng agreed to keep an eye open for opportunity. Fourth Aunt informed my mother
        immediately.
        One day, a supervisor handed me a checked parcel containing a bottle of vitamins, towel,
        toothbrush, toothpaste, and bar of soap, but no letter. Having heard that toothpaste or soap was
        sometimes used to deliver messages to detainees, I guessed there might be a note in the toothpaste or
        soap, but the end of the toothpaste tube was sealed. I waited patiently until meal time. Amid the noisy
        disorder, I inserted a chopstick into the soap, and felt something inside. I widened the hole and pulled
        out a small piece of paper that read: Qing Hui, report back to the hometown.
        I crumbled the note and swallowed it immediately. I was in two states of mind: The first was
        happy, finally there was a turning point; but second was worry that last time in Xingning Detention
        Center, I was released as Zeng Qing Hui; now to report Zeng Qing Hui again could arouse suspicion.
        However, already at wits end, I brushed this new fear aside.
        Next morning after assembly, I asked for inquiry. The supervisor glanced at me, "Hmm,” he said:
        "so finally you have thought it through? Continuing to conceal your name is impossible.” This told me
        that the military propaganda team had taken over the detention center.
        As factional fighting during the Cultural Revolution intensified, the "Supreme Commander" Mao
        seeing the situation was out of control, ordered the army to take over organizations and units
        nationwide in the name of "propagandizing Mao Zedong thought”. Most of the soldiers sent to the
        detention center were from inland provinces who could not speak Cantonese, were not highly educated
        and had been indoctrinated with the "revolutionary" education since childhood. They regarded fleeing
        to Hong Kong as "treason” although due to the policy deeming it merely a "violation of the border
        regulations" they could not do much, but often beat and scolded detainees. Those who didn’t report real
        addresses, they beat or tied hands across their backs and hung them on trees until they yielded.
        That afternoon I reported as "Zeng Qing Hui, Xingning County, Xinning Commune XX brigade
        XX production team" and was transferred to the Sending Section. More then ten days later, I was taken
        with fellow detainees by car back to Xingning Detention Center.
        The newly promoted head was an ex-service man who stared when he saw me and remarked,
        "Hmm, come again!" Apparently he had heard rumors about me, and immediately announced that he
        would personally send me to the commune the next day. I caught a glimpse of supervisor Cheng at his
        side who seemed somewhat amazed.
        That night I tossed and turned for hours, considering various possible scenarios after I was sent
        back to the commune: They might ask me about the production team and I might give a suspicious
        answer; then they could ask the production brigade to identify me; if found out, they would beat me
        and force me to kneel on broken glass; finally, they would escort me back to Kunming and all would be
        over!
        The next morning, the head really did personally send me to the commune. I had heard that the
        location of the commune committee was in the former Catholic Church. Along the way, I kept praying
        in my heart: "God, I am coming back today, please help me."
        At the commune committee there was just one person on duty. He did not know "Zeng Qing Hui"
        because Zeng Qing Hui had no previous record; nor was Zeng Qing Hui a well-known person. Without
        saying anything, the person on duty simply accepted my paper and signed it. The head of the detention
        center had no reason to doubt and he left.
        The man on duty spoke a few words of bureaucratic routine, ordered me to write a self criticism,
        and then went to an inner room. I spent more than 10 minutes trying to imitate the handwriting of the
        poorly educated and handed it to the person on duty. He gave it a brief glance, carelessly tossed it on
        the table and shouted: "Go back! Next time you are caught back again I’ll peel your skin." I kept on
        replying, "Yes, yes." but thought: My goodness! Would I have such bad luck as to be caught yet again?
        I quickly walked out of the commune committee.
        On the road, my cousin Qing Yi saw I was free and, greatly relieved, quickly ran over to meet me.
        He anxiously asked," Why so long? I am afraid of things you might have divulged.” I said I only was
        required to write a self criticism. My cousin led me away quickly and we continued our conversation.
        Away from the commune committee, Qing Yi told me that supervisor Cheng had notified Fourth
        Aunt the night before that Zeng Qing Hui was sent back to the detention center, and the new head
        wanted to personally deliver him to Xinning Commune the following morning. So my cousin Qing Yi
        came early to wait for me near the commune committee. Watching me taken in, he anxiously walked
        around the area. He began worrying when I did not soon come out. Finally, when he saw me leave, he
        thanked God (Qing Yi was also a devout Catholic).
        After more than four months of panic and torments, in less than half an hour all my troubles
        disappeared like a smoke, almost as easy as blowing off dust. Now breathing free air at last, I still
        wondered if it was real or only a dream.
        I certainly was grateful, yet a series of "ifs" crossed my mind: If there had been others there
        besides the man on duty at that time; if the man on duty had asked me a few questions about the
        commune or the brigade; if he had called the brigade or the production team to identify me; or if he had
        called the Red Guards to beat me and then sent me to the production team. If any of that had happened,
        where would I be now?
        Fourth Aunt arranged for me to stay at a friend's home in the town that night. Qing Yi bought a
        bus ticket with a fake certificate. He was careful the next day. To prevent my being seen unnecessarily
        by anyone at the bus station, he borrowed a bicycle and took me for a ride to the suburbs until the bus
        came and I could board. That afternoon, I returned home to Guangzhou safely.
        My mother, brother and sisters were relieved and joyful at my return but sad to me so emaciated.
        After listening to the story of my escape and a series of "ifs,” they were much amazed but still had a
        lingering fear. My mother said they had tried every effort to rescue in vain, unexpectedly seeing my
        danger change to safety in an instant. It was more than a miracle. Man proposes, God disposes, things
        are under destiny. The whole family thanked and praised God.
        The second sister went to tell Aunt Yin and they returned with little Meng quickly. Two-year-old
        little Meng happily rushed to her father. I hugged her tightly, thinking that I might have never seen her
        again. I could not help but burst into tears. Dad came back on the weekend. Opening the door and
        seeing me, he exclaimed "Oh!" and hugged me crying.
        I would not forget to reward the relatives and friends who had lent a helping hand. They were
        sincerely delighted at my miraculous escape. Once again I deeply realized that it was fathers’ and
        ancestors’ virtuous deeds which favored descendants, so there were so many who helped.
        By this time I had been in and out of detention centers five times over a period of four and a half
        months. That I did not die of starvation or illness and had not been sent back to Kunming was more
        than good luck!
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          Move to Tianyuan

          Day by day, my patients are still very few. Although the fifth and his wife were very good, I didn't feel comfortable staying there. When Hui and Li Zhong appeared, I felt anxious and helpless to bring Deng Ji from the neighboring county to see me. Dungi said he hoped I could help him. When I asked for details, dungie replied that he was weak and needed some medicine to improve his health. Hui and Zhong said that Deng Ji is a famous person in Tianya town and encouraged me to go there with him. I was very happy with the new opportunity, so I agreed immediately. I said goodbye to the fifth family, left them a small bottle of APC and they enjoyed the powder very much, then followed Deng Ji to Tianya town. Tianyuan is bigger and more prosperous than Baxia. Dungi opened a shop for incense, candles and paper ingots, which is very famous in the area. The Vietnamese government controls and suppresses religion, but still allows people to worship their gods and ancestors. On the third day of my stay, the news of President Ho Chi Minh's death on the street radio sounded like an elegy. The atmosphere in the town became solemn. In the afternoon, more and more people, including some cadres, came to Deng Ji's shop to buy incense. Dunkey told me where they wanted to sacrifice. I asked, "do the above (authorities)" require them to do so? Deng did not understand what "above" meant, and said they wanted to do it themselves. Dungie told me that more customers would come to me tomorrow to help move more goods down the stairs. The government allows people
          In memory of their leader



          原文:

          Moving to Tien Yen

          As the days went by, my patients still were few. Although A Fifth and his wife were kind, I was
          not comfortable remaining there. I was feeling anxious and helpless when Hui and Li Zhong appeared
          bringing a man named Deng Ji from a neighboring county to see me.
          Deng Ji said he hoped I could help heal his illness. When I asked for details, Deng Ji answered
          that he was weak and needed some medicine to promote his health. Hui and Zhong said Deng Ji was a
          well-known figure in Tien Yen Town and encouraged me to go there with him. I was happy about this
          new opportunity, so immediately agreed. I bid farewell to A Fifth family, leaving them a vial of APC
          powder which they much appreciated, and then followed Deng Ji to Tien Yen town.
          Tien Yen was larger than Dam Ha and somewhat more prosperous. Deng Ji ran a shop selling
          incense, candles and paper ingots, and was well-known in the local area. The Vietnamese government
          controlled and suppressed religion but still allowed folks to worship their gods and ancestors.
          On the third day of my stay, the street radio broadcast the death of Chairman Ho Chi Minh and
          sounded a dirge. The town’s atmosphere became solemn. In the afternoon, more and more people
          including some cadres came to Deng Ji’s shop to buy incense. Deng Ji told me that they wanted to offer
          a sacrifice to Ho. I asked, did “the above (authority)” request them to do so? Deng Ji didn't understand
          what "the above" meant and said that they themselves wanted to do it.
          Deng Ji told me that there would be more customers coming tomorrow and asked me to help
          move more goods down from upstairs. I marveled that the government allowed people to
          commemorate their leader in a traditional superstitious way, something that would have been
          impossible in China. Vietnamese Communism seemed more compatible with folk customs. As time
          went on I could see that in Vietnam, although many people did not like Communism, they still had
          respect for Ho Chi Minh, regarding him as the King of Vietnam and “morally good.”
          Deng Ji was suffering from infertility. His wife had been examined by the hospital and learned
          that she was not the problem. After doing a routine physical examination I found that his heart, lung,
          abdomen and nervous system all were normal. I recommended he go to the hospital for a semen test,
          the result being "no sperm found”. Considering Deng Ji's thin and tall stature, slender limbs, and
          somewhat feminine voice, I guessed he was of the XXY chromosome type (i.e. his sex chromosome
          had one more X than normal male XY type), so there would be little possibility of fertilization.
          I didn't share my speculation with Deng Ji. Even if I explained this to him it is doubtful he would
          have understood. However, if I did not give him a prescription, not only he would be dissatisfied but
          the people around also would doubt me.
          After consideration, I prescribed him "Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (HCG)" – a medicine used
          only in hospitals. He probably would not be able to obtain it, I thought, so no one would blame me for
          failure to cure his illness. At the same time I asked him to re-test his semen. Deng Ji later said he found
          nowhere to buy the medicine. He also did not go for a second semen test. Things had to be given up; I
          had done all I could do.
          Doc Moc Village
          While Deng Ji attempted to buy medicine, I had nothing to do and realized that living in the town
          was not safe. A few days later, Deng Ji said he would escort me to a family of his same surname in a
          mountainous area. He asked me to change my surname to Deng for the advantage of being recognized
          as a member of the same clan (Their traditional concept was that persons with the same surname
          belonged to the same clan). I previously had said that my surname Zhou was only casual. It did not
          matter if I changed my surname to Deng, therefore I became known as Deng Third (ranked third).
          When we arrived, I learned that Deng Ji's distant relative was called Uncle Shangyou and was
          over 50. His family of nine members of three generations lived in a hillside house. Deng Ji explained
          his intention for bringing me. Shangyou listened but was noncommittal. Deng Ji left some money and a
          packet of dry fish and, after lunch, left me there and returned home.
          After a while, a young man came in from outside. He had a square face and was rather short and
          stout. Uncle Shangyou said he was a distant nephew named A Six and came from Dongxing. That night
          A Six and I slept on a bamboo bed in the hall.
          The village where Uncle Shangyou lived was called "Doc Moc.” It belonged to Dong Ngu
          Commune which was adjacent to Dam Ha County. A dozen families were scattered along a valley.
          They were all ethnic Chinese and formed a production team. Because the families were scattered far
          apart, collective labor was a waste of time. So they gave minimal effort to collective labor, taking off
          early each day. Then they returned home and worked on private plots to plant vegetables, or plowed the
          hillside to plant yam, cassava or corn. Each family raised chickens and pigs, which were the main
          sources of income for the purchase of household necessities. Their lives were hard and the houses were
          rather simple and worn.
          During the day, A Six worked on behalf of Shangyou alongside production team members on the
          field, and Shangyou himself worked on the private plots or did other work at home. I could not replace
          Shangyou to work on the field, nor was I able to help Shangyou much with the private plots or home
          affairs. In fact, there was very little I could do, leaving me often bored and in a bad mood.
          One hot day A Six invited me for a swim in a nearby pool. Some villagers already were there. A
          Six wearing a pair of underpants jumped into the water. Like other locals, he did not care about form or
          stroke, but dived to the bottom and casually grabbed a stone or whatever he saw there, throwing it away
          if it were useless. This of course was related to the practical skill they used in grabbing a crab or frog or
          anything else of value.
          I had learned to swim in an urban pool, including breaststroke, freestyle and other forms, but
          underwater swimming was strictly forbidden. Here I stripped down to my shorts and stepped carefully
          down into the pool. I could only float on the water and swim the breaststroke which the others could
          not understand. They laughed and shouted and asked me to swim underwater. I gave it a try, but kept
          bobbing back to the surface. Everyone was convulsed with laughter and shouted "Guangzhou comer!"
          For a while I was a laughingstock.
          Unable to do rural labor and taunted as the "Guangzhou comer", once again I felt isolated,
          depressed, and sad day after day!
          Fortunately, the villagers learned that I could heal illness and some called on me for help. Being
          able to go out and not be limited to boarding with one family, I began to feel more relaxed. Before
          coming to Tien Yen, I had requested someone traveling to Dongxing to buy me a set of acupuncture
          needles. Acupuncture and massage for chronic illness need several sessions of treatment. I told the
          patient's family that each session of acupuncture I did was free; after the pain was relieved the patient
          could pay as he saw fit. Rather than making money, my aim was simply to get a meal (even only a few
          yams or a bowl of stale rice porridge) or a place to stay at night. Having one more place to stay was
          good enough for me.
          Although I no longer lived in Uncle Shangyou's home, I remained grateful to him and his family.
          Later, after I had moved to Dong Hua (see below), we remained good friends. I had healed their
          illnesses and cured Uncle Shangyou's hemorrhoids.
          A villager named Mu Xian asked me to treat his mother’s back pain. Aunt Mu had suffered from
          lower back pain for years. Recently she had an attack of severe pain, causing sleepless nights.
          After an examination I found that she had right sacroiliac arthritis, and told them this disease was
          not easy to cure but the pain could be relieved. I applied acupuncture and massage which quickly
          relieved the pain. I also gave her some painkillers to help reduce inflammation and swelling. They
          were very happy. I explained that she would need several more sessions of treatment. Mu Xian said no
          problem and invited me to stay in his house.
          Mu Xian was the deputy head of the village and was in charge of the team's production. He was a
          very capable and intelligent man. His second brother Mu Xin was a student of the County High School.
          It took more than two hours to go to and from school each day. After school Mu Xin often went to the
          mountains to gather herbs such as amomum seeds and polygonium root. When he had accumulated
          enough he went to Dongxing and sold them to the Herbs Purchasing Station. Mu Xin bought some
          small commodities back and resold them to the shops in town.
          The third brother was a student in the junior high school of Dong Ngu Commune. Uncle Mu had
          attended old-style private school, so when he chatted with me he would quote some classic sentences. I
          could see that the Mu family was cultured and I felt somewhat comfortable in their home.
          That night Aunt Mu again complained of back pain. Xian awakened me, I did acupuncture for her,
          and soon the pain was relieved. They were surprised at the small needles having such a magical effect.
          After a few days of treatment, Aunt Mu's back pain was greatly eased. One day, Xin and his
          younger brother along with villagers went to the seaside to catch crabs and brought back two baskets.
          Xian’s wife had boiled a wok of water. After flushing the crabs, Xin poured them into the wok where
          they soon turn red. After they had put the crabs into two bamboo baskets, I joined the family to enjoy
          an all-crab dinner, sitting on small stools and straw woven pads in the kitchen. Each crab was about
          half a palm or bigger size; no salt, oil or other seasoning was needed; it tasted surprisingly delicious.
          But everyone ate too much, so the next day several people got mild diarrhea.
          In China, I had never seen such big crabs, nor had the opportunity eat crab without limit.
          Wandering in Vietnam, this was the first time of my finding sweetness amidst bitterness!
          I lived with the Mu family about ten days. Aunt Mu's lower back pain continued to be much
          relieved. During that time, if another patient called me, I would eat or sleep at that patient's home.
          One day I was sitting in the hall when Mu Xian came in with a man wearing a yellow uniform. He
          obviously was a policeman. Petrified, I stared at him in fright. Fortunately, Xian introduced me to him
          immediately: “This is my cousin. He come from Dongxing to Dam Ha for a wedding banquet and took
          this opportunity to visit us.” The policeman politely greeted me. After sitting a while he said goodbye
          and went to Village Head Pan’s house.
          Uncle Mu criticized Xian for bringing home the policeman, but Xian offered this explanation: “I
          went to the commune meeting and met the policeman. After the meeting the policeman told me he
          would come to Doc Moc to meet the village head and followed me. When we approached the house of
          Pepper Er (a villager), I planned to take a break and secretly send someone to warn you to leave for a
          while. Unexpectedly Pepper Er’s door was locked. Since there was no alternative, I made up the story
          about you that I told to the policeman.”
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            In fact, people often come to weddings or funerals between Dongxing and Vietnam's border county. So the police didn't doubt me, that's good. My treatment of aunt Mu is thorough. I can't live with Mu's family anymore. I next moved to Hong's house. Hong lives in a lonely hut on the other side of the ditch. Hong is a bachelor in his 60s. I have been there several times to treat his stomachache. Hong planted two terraces beside the ditch; the production team did not force him to participate in collective production, so Hong was classified as an individual farmer. Gradually, some families in nearby Chinese villages asked me to see a doctor. The villages are several kilometers apart from each other. Like Dr. Moke, a dozen families settled in a small valley, some of them in a large family. However, they have to form production teams and collectively build several mu of "commune land". Later, they planted yams and cassava on private hillsides, or raised chickens and pigs. When I was in a small village, I asked a resident, "since you are all a big family, why can't you assign each family a piece of farmland to work?" He said. "No, if the commune finds out, they may assign another production team to plant here, and then send us to work a few kilometers away. It's difficult for us. " I was stunned. There are crows everywhere. All communist countries are promoting the unwelcome "collective production", that is, the so-called "socialist road". Is it really necessary to develop production, or just for the convenience of the party's rule? Faroe Islands

            原文:
            In fact, between Dongxing and the border counties of Vietnam, people often came to attend
            wedding or funeral banquets. So the policeman did not suspect me, which was good.
            My treatment of Aunt Mu was complete and I could no longer live with the Mu family. I next
            moved to the home of Hong, who lived in a solitary hut on the other side of the ditch. Hong was a
            bachelor in his 60s. I had been there several times to treat his stomach pain. Hong had planted two
            terraces by the ditch; the production team didn't force him to participate in team production, so Hong
            was classified as an individual peasant.
            Gradually, some families from nearby ethnic Chinese villages asked me to see patients. These
            villages were scattered a few kilometers apart from each other. Similar to Doc Moc, a dozen
            households had settled along a small valley, some of them belonging to one big family. However, they
            still had to form a production team and worked collectively on a few acres of "commune farmland”.
            After that they worked on private hillside plots to grow yam and cassava, or raise chickens and pigs.
            When I was in one of the small villages, I asked a resident, “Since you are all in the same big family,
            why can’t you assign a section of farmland to each household to work?"
            He said. “No, if the commune found out about that, they might assign another production team to
            plant here, and sent us to work a few kilometers away. That would be hardship for us."
            I was stunned. Crows everywhere were black. All Communist countries were pushing for such
            unpopular "collective production" - the so-called "go along the socialist road”. Was it really to develop
            production, or just to facilitate rule of the Party?
            For a long time, I had to wander around several villages in that area and go to wherever a patient
            called me, but patients were few. I always had to worry about where I was to get a meal and spend the
            night. Often I had rice porridge at one house this morning, had a simple lunch elsewhere, and then slept
            in yet another house that night. Arising the next morning, I did not know where I would be headed.
            "So hungry, looking forward to the front village, could I get something to eat?
            Boundless twilight, walking hesitatingly, I wondered where to sleep tonight?"
            This was a true portrayal of my situation at that time.
            However, the bigger threat continued to be the police which I had to beware of day and night.
            Even a barking dog prompted fear that the police might be coming.
            Sure enough, one night, a policeman along with militia came unexpectedly to catch the bordercrossed
            Chinese. A Six in Shangyou’s house heard dogs barking furiously and immediately fled.
            Another border-crossed Chinese, a carpenter, working in turn in various households, had just finished
            at one house and also fled. I was away that day in a neighboring village. As I had no fixed residence,
            the policeman asked a local family about me. Receiving no definite answer, he left. When I learned
            about all this the next day, it was a shock. From that time, I knew I must always be vigilant even during
            the day.
            Surprising Qian and His Cousin
            I had met Qian in Deng Ji’s shop. He was a middle-aged, short man in the administrative cadre of
            Tien Yen Shipyard. He had learned something about me from Uncle Seven of Dam Ha, and invited me
            to stay in his house, saying he could recommend patients to me, because he also sometimes treated
            patients. I guessed that he wanted to gain medical knowledge and experience from me. Not wanting to
            stay forever in Doc Moc, I went happily with Qian to his house.
            Qian's house was more than a kilometer from the town and on the roadside. It was an evacuation
            hut of muddy bamboo mat wall and thatched roof. His family had been town residents but was
            evacuated to the suburbs to avoid the U.S. aircraft bombing. Qian and his wife had five children; three
            of them were students of primary school and junior high school.
            Qian was in charge of material management in the shipyard. He was an ex-company commander
            of the Vietnamese People's Army. When Vietnamese Communists took power, he was made chairman
            of the Military and Administrative Committee of Tien Yen County. This was a position of great power.
            Qian occasionally spoke of this past glory.
            However, Qian was soon demoted to work in the police station, and finally to the shipyard. In his
            words, "The rank was getting lower and lower”, mainly because he was an ethnic Chinese. Some of his
            former comrades, who had meritorious military service, later became members of the "United Front”,
            and like him were transferred to minor posts. "Fought without caring about danger to win the power but
            later gave it to the Vietnamese" was the common resentment in their hearts.
            Qian's wife was a forestry worker, her daily job to cut down the weeds and shrubs around the trees
            on the mountains, her monthly wage less than 40 Dong. Together with Qian’s salary, a total of 100-odd
            Dong, it still was difficult to support a family. Qian had to take every opportunity to supplement their
            income. Fortunately they were town residents and were entitled to a ration of food at a low price. In
            addition, Qian and his wife were government employees and could buy a certain quantity of pork and
            sugar at a low price each month for themselves but not for their children.
            On the next day Qian took me to see his Vietnamese cousin in town. This cousin suffered from
            eye bleeding; the whites of the both eyes were red and looked terrible. He had experienced no trauma
            and had no blood diseases. Checking the eyes, I advised him that this was subconjunctival hemorrhage
            and assured him it was not a serious problem; the hemorrhage would gradually disappear in a few days.
            Then I routinely checked his heart, lung and abdomen. Listening to the heart, I detected a diastolic
            rumbling murmur near the apex, and enlargement of the heart on percussion. This was mitral stenosis
            with heart failure; I told him he had heart disease.
            The cousin and Qian acted surprised. After a moment he asked, "What medicine should I use?" I
            said that different medicines should be used in different situations but the common one was, and I
            wrote the Latin name, "digitalis”.
            Really amazed, they looked at me in even greater surprise and did not speak. Then I was told that
            digitalis was what he already was taking!
            The cousin had called me to tend his eyes without telling me of his heart disease. Unexpectedly I
            discovered it by routine examination. Qian said he previously had suspected a doctor used a
            stethoscope just to put on an act. Now he believed it was a valuable instrument. He began to have more
            confidence in me.
            I asked the patient, "Where do you see a doctor and get medicine? Is it expensive?" He replied,
            "We go to the County Hospital. To visit a doctor is free, only to pay medicine and it is not expensive.
            Many drugs are subsidized by the Soviet Union, Eastern Europe and China.” I asked again, “How
            about the farmers?” He said: “The same, it is free.” He also told me that in the County Hospital there
            was a doctor who was graduated from the medical college, and two intermediate physicians graduated
            from the intermediate medical school. In addition, laboratory tests, X-ray, hospitalization and surgery
            were free. Patients could buy meals provided by the hospital, but many families brought their own food
            for patients.
            I lamented that in China medical care were only for cadres and workers, but not for farmers who
            accounted for more than 80 percent of population. The Communist Party had seized power by "rural
            areas encircling cities" and "peasants wearing the military uniforms" but afterwards the peasants were
            still at the bottom of society, of much less concern than the welfare of urban workers. Vietnam was
            fairer than China in that respect.
            Although to visit a doctor in the hospital was free, many Vietnamese, especially farmers, still
            avoided going to the hospital, probably due to traditional custom, or to avoid long travel or wait times.
            Instead, they visited the nearest herbalist to get herbs or for "burning moxa.” Only for serious
            conditions would they go to the hospital. Town residents went to the hospital more often, but many of
            them preferred to consult a self-taught healer of Western Medicine or Chinese Traditional Medicine or
            an herbalist.
            The Ethnic Chinese Village of Dong Hoa
            Qian took me to a village half a kilometer north from his hut - Dong Hoa, The residents were
            ethnic Chinese.
            Qian led me to a house on the roadside, the home of villager Xinyi. Qian introduced me as “Deng
            Third, a doctor from China.” Xinyi greeted me, studied me for a moment, and then chatted with Qian.
            After drinking a cup of tea, Qian got up to say goodbye. But Xinyi said, “Since the doctor is here,
            may I ask your help in giving my daughter an injection?” His daughter was suffering from tuberculosis
            for which the government provided streptomycin and "Filato" (a "tissue therapy" preparation from the
            Soviet Union once popular in China but soon out of favor because of its ineffectiveness). Both Qian
            and I agreed to assist.
            Xinyi placed a thermos flask and bowl on the table and asked me to rinse the syringe. I
            remembered that in Dam Ha they only rinsed the syringe with warm water before injection, a practice
            not sufficient for sterilization. So I directed Xinyi to wash a pot for boiling the syringe.
            Xinyi showed a little surprise, but washed a small aluminum pot and handed it to me. I found the
            inside of the pot stained with rice paste and directed him to wash it again carefully. Then I put the
            syringe and hemostat (a small surgical clamp for constricting a blood vessel) together into the pot, and
            added water to boil. After that I poured out the water, took out the hemostat, clipped an alcohol cotton
            ball to disinfect the vial and the patient’s skin, and then took out the syringe, connected with the needle,
            and drew the solution to inject.
            They watched me curiously. Qian said: "We have never done it like this, but only rinsed the
            syringe with warm water. No wonder it caused ‘a-xia’ (abces, French, i.e., abscess. They followed the
            pronunciation of the French colonial era) after injection!”
            Later, Qian took me to visit other houses to let the residents know of my medical skills.
            Maybe Qian’s publicity worked, or maybe it was Xinyi watching me boil the syringe carefully. In
            any case, the praise spread and next day someone came to see me for treatment. It was simply a child
            with cough and fever, easily treated. Gradually more patients came, some with stomachache or
            lumbago, but not many. At least I had some income, so I felt a bit more comfortable living in Qian’s
            home.Qian often had guests, most of them ethnic Chinese officials of lower or middle level from local
            or surrounding areas, so I gradually got to know some persons of higher status.
            However, it was not wise for me to live in Qian’s home for a long period of time. First, Qian was
            a government administrator, so he could incur criticism for harboring a border-crossed Chinese for an
            extended time. Second, Qian’s hut was on the roadside and offered no means of escape if the police
            came. Therefore, I took the opportunity to treat patients in Dong Hoa so I could board there as often as
            possible. When I no longer lived in Qian’s home, he would very kindly come to Dong Hoa whenever
            he had time. Sometimes he introduced a patient to me, or just brought friends to chat. When I had a
            patient, I was happy to teach Qian about medical treatment.
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              A villager named Wang Bao asked me to treat his mother's lower back pain. After I gave her acupuncture and massage, the pain eased quickly. My name is Aunt Wang. She is very happy. I also gave her painkillers and told Wang Bao that his mother needed acupuncture for a couple of days. Wang Bao said it's OK. He invited me to live in his house. Wang Bao is tall and strong. He usually wears a pair of shorts in summer. He is generous; when the villagers have difficulties or needs, he will put down his work to help even if he is busy. His wife sometimes complains, but he says, "do you want to carry the coffin after you die?" Ting Wen asked me to help his wife with her stomachache. I guess her acid reflux gave her antacid. After a week, the pain eased. I also cured his mother's headache and the wound and infection on his child's foot. Ting Wen is very happy. During that time, I spent most of my time on the boat at his home. Tingwen is a sincere, intelligent and capable person. He is one of the leaders of the production department responsible for the safety of the village. Living in his house, I can fall asleep safely. Jiaqiu's son came to me and said that his father stood up and twisted his waist. Now he can't move because of the pain. I examined him and found that there was a muscle strain in the waist and a pain point of acupuncture near the back of the hand. At the same time, I asked him to turn his waist slowly. After that, Jiaqiu said, the pain disappeared. He wanted to know if there was medicine on the tip of the needle. I said no, but I gave him two days of medicine to relieve the pain and hurt. I saw a pile of mushroom things under his eaves. They we
              原文:
              A villager named Wangbao requested me to treat his mother's lower back pain. After I gave her
              acupuncture and massage, the pain was relieved quickly. Aunt Wang, as I called her, was very happy. I
              also gave her painkillers, and told Wangbao that his mother needed successive acupuncture for a couple
              of days. Wangbao said no problem and invited me to stay in his house.
              Wangbao was tall and burly and usually wore a pair of shorts in summer. He was generous; in
              case a villager had difficulty or needs, he would put down his work to help even if busy. His wife
              sometimes complained, but he said, "Do you want to carry the coffin yourself when you die?"
              Tingwen asked me to help treat his wife's stomachache. I guessed she had gastric acid reflux and
              gave her antacids. After a week, the pain was relieved. I also healed the headache of his mother, and the
              wound and infection of his child's foot. Tingwen was very pleased. During that time, I mostly boarded
              at his home. Tingwen was a sincere, smart and an able man. He was one of leaders of the production
              team and was in charge of village security. Living in his home, I might sleep safely.
              Jiaqiu’s son sought me saying that his father sprained the waist when he stood up and now it was
              too painful to move. I examined him, found lumbar muscle strain, so did acupuncture at a tender point
              near zhongchu in the back of the hand. At the same time I asked him to slowly rotate his waist. After a
              while, Jiaqiu said the pain disappeared. He wondered if the needle tip was coated with medicine. I said
              no, but gave him two days of medicine to help relieve pain and injury.
              I saw a pile of mushroom-like things piled under the eaves of his house. They were black or
              yellow and surprisingly large, up to the size of a small washbasin, some of them clumped together to
              form an even larger mass. Jiaqiu said it was "gemu fungus". Gemu is a kind of hard tree. These
              mushroom-like things grow near its root and have an astringent taste. He explained that people from
              Dongxing came to buy them for use as a medicinal herb. Those not purchased would be burned as
              firewood.
              Later I learned this was the so-called "magic fungus (ganoderma lucidum)”, an expensive tonic
              herb which was sold in herb stores by grams!
              Ironically, "A material item is more valued away from its place of origin, while a man becomes
              more humbled away from home!" Ganoderma lucidum was valuable as a "magic fungus" only away
              from its place of origin, but a man going far away to a strange land is like a tree without root or a fish
              out of water. I was an example, wandering in North Vietnam as an illegal resident, eating whatever I
              could get and often sleeping in the wilderness. My “humble” situation was truly lamentable!
              Jiaqiu treated me to dinner. There was a dish of fried fresh sand worms. Sand worms are
              coelenterates (related to jellyfish) that are slightly bigger than chopsticks and about the length of a
              human palm. The first time I ate sand worms, I found them to be very delicious. They are a famous
              specialty of the local coastal area. There was also a bowl of pickled crabs. Each crab was as big as a
              thumbnail and eaten with the whole thin shell.
              Jiaqiu told me that they sometimes went to the beach to pick up sand worms and small crabs.
              Picking up small crabs was easy: just spread some BHC (pesticide) powder on the beach while the
              small crabs were out. He could pick up half a bamboo basket in one night. It’s crisp if fried freshly and
              especially delicious when eaten with liquor. Those not eaten immediately were pickled and that was
              what we were eating now. I was alarmed when Jiaqiu said they had spread BHC to poison the crabs,
              and quickly warned they should not be eaten. But Jiaqiu didn’t take it seriously, saying he had not
              heard of anyone poisoned. But he promised to wash them more thoroughly in the future.
              What I Saw and Heard in Dong Hoa
              Dong Hoa was about two kilometers north of Tien Yen town. There was a gravel highway passing
              through the village from south to north. The east side was flat land with more than 30 households, each
              in a single family house. Farther east was a river - Binh Lieu River that flowed through the east side of
              Tien Yen town into the sea. East of the river were mountains and there were several families living in
              the foothills. To the west of the highway were hills with only three families. Farther west were more
              mountains.
              Dong Hoa inhabitants were ethnic Chinese whose ancestors were mostly from Dongxing. As in
              Dam Ha, they spoke Cantonese or Hakka.
              Dong Hoa was an agricultural village. Farmers formed a production team which was also the
              administrative unit. The main task of village officials was to organize and lead the collective
              production. The farmers appeared sluggish and perfunctory in collective labor; in fact the yield of
              collective production provided only a minor portion of family income. They put more efforts on their
              private plots, the most important crop being sugar cane, followed by peanuts, corn, vegetables and so
              on. They also raised chickens and pigs, reared silkworms and wove.
              Sugar cane was used for juicing, the juice boiled thickly and formed into sugar cubes. The
              squeezed sugar canes were splashed and infused with water and squeezed again. They repeated the
              procedure two or three times to obtain a lighter sugar juice for brewing. The final product was called
              "sugar fermented liquor”.
              The sugar cubes and sugar fermented liquor of Dong Hoa were famous. It was the main source of
              income and was the reason why Dong Hoa villagers were slightly richer than those in other rural areas.
              In addition, there were one or two mulberry trees in the front yard of every house, and many
              households had simple reeling and weaving machines; the cloth was dyed with dye yam (dioscorea
              cirrhosa) to yellow brown and used for clothes or mosquito nets. This was the most common type of
              clothes for farmers, because the rural population was not issued cloth coupons.
              A farmer who wanted to buy cloth at state-owned stores had to obtain the coupon indirectly from
              an urban resident, or to buy it on the black market. How did the black market get clothes to sell? It was
              said there always was someone who found a way to obtain them. It seemed that corruption under an
              autocratic regime was the same in Vietnam as in China.
              Another sideline of Dong Hoa villagers was logging. The forest was state property, so anyone
              logging must apply for a permit, and must sell felled wood to the government. There was a quota per
              person per year, and the price was very low. After completing the quota, the loggers would secretly sell
              more the wood to private individuals at a much higher price, or save it for personal use.
              Felled lumber was linked into rows and pulled by a water buffalo to the riverside. Several people
              cooperatively bound rows into a long raft and floated it downstream at night for secret sales directly to
              customers. What they most worried about was being seized in midstream by the forestry antismuggling
              officers. Then all the wood must be sold to the government at very low price (about 1/5 to
              1/8 of the private price) and months of hard labor were all but cast to the winds.
              Along the highway were a number of simple huts built by residents evacuated from Tien Yen
              Town, Haiphong or other cities to avoid the U.S. aircraft bombing. A hut usually consisted of front and
              rear parts. The front part was used for some small business which the government allowed the evacuees
              to do for living, such as selling homemade cakes, noodle snacks, or repairing, sewing; the rear was for
              living quarters. When the situation became tense because war in the South, the number of evacuee huts
              might grow to a dozen or more. Even the County Hospital and other units were evacuated to a hillside
              half a kilometer north of Dong Hoa.
              There was a primary school north of the village on the roadside. There were several classrooms
              with muddy bamboo mat walls and thatched roofs. Dozens of students came from the village and
              across the river. They learned mainly Chinese but also Vietnamese. Rural children, especially girls,
              usually studied for a few years and were capable of simple reading and calculating, but only some
              would attend the county high school. One of my patients, a villager, was amazed by my quick writing,
              and exclaimed, "You know a lot of words!" He asked, "How many years have you learned at school? I
              think at least five or six years."
              Dong Hoa villagers lighted their oil lamps at night. Once I went to see a patient and saw the
              owner scoop out a kerosene-like but thicker and yellow liquid from a jar and pour it into the lamp.
              Surprised, I asked what it was and why it was stored in a big jar. He replied, "It’s free!" It turned out
              that the oil was an aid from China. The crude oil was transported by pipeline which passed through the
              mountains. One time the pipeline on the other side of the river burst and the crude oil flowed down the
              hill to the river day and night; people rushed to collect it with buckets and every household soon had
              full jars and canisters.
              I was flabbergasted and sighed. We in our country had to import crude oil to supplement domestic
              consumption!
              There was an automatic waterwheel device on the riverside of Dong Hoa, which was driven by
              the water flow and connected with pipes to the village for irrigation. The full set of equipment was
              provided with assistance from China. It was a good thing, but unfortunately the annual flood caused
              damaged, and it would require a lot of labor to fix it.
              They told me that China had once assisted them in setting up a simple power grid to provide every
              household with electric lights. Later it failed because of poor management.
              A short distance to the north of Dong Hoa was an apiary established with the assistance of China
              and once directed by a Chinese apiculture expert. The harvested honey supplied officials of a certain
              status. The apiary sometimes presented movies which were often Chinese, so the nearby villagers
              would go to watch.
              Even the state-owned Tien Yen Forest Farm was set up with assistance from China and was later
              taken over by the Vietnamese government.
              China spared no effort to aid Vietnam, first in the fight against France, then to fight against U.S.
              China not only contributed human power and money, but gave a hand to the rural construction. In order
              to be the head of the international Communist movement, Mao distributed large sums of money to
              countries throughout the world regardless of the life and death of our own people - this was the socalled
              "selfless spirit of internationalism”!
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                The villagers don't care about politics

                I had a meal and a bed in Donghua District, where I have been seeing almost every family. From the words and deeds of the villagers, I can see that they have left deep Chinese feelings. In their hearts, they identify themselves as Chinese, indignant at being classified as a secret, and indignant at the Han nationality, one of the ethnic minorities in Vietnam. They often consciously realize that they are more capable, more hardworking and earn more money than Vietnamese. Before the Communist Party seized power, the rich Tianyuan residents were almost all overseas Chinese. Chinese seldom marry Vietnamese. The fact that the quality of goods made in China (materials provided by the Chinese government or small-scale goods and drugs smuggled from Dongxing) is higher than those produced in Vietnam also contributes to this recognition. However, comparing their life in Vietnam with what they see and hear, their relatives and friends in China (mainly in Dongxing area) prefer to live in Vietnam. They occasionally mention events in the early 1960s, when a large number of Chinese fled Dongxing to seek shelter with their relatives in Vietnam, crying that after the government confiscated the crops, people were so hungry that they had to eat grass roots. They don't understand why the Cultural Revolution tortured and killed people. They exclaim that "China will always be a place where nine evils cannot be forgiven and can't live." I have never asked what happened to me in China, but I sympathized with "escaping from the predicament" and came to Vietnam, providing various means of help and protection. I have never seen Vietnamese study politics or hold political gatherings, or heard them use political terms



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                  Kai told me that the Chinese, especially the intellectuals with relatives in the south, should be very careful when they are overseas. Fortunately, Vietnam has no continuous political activities like China's, and those who have relations with overseas countries will not be persecuted as so-called "spy suspects". Kay can still work as a technician, so I'm really happy for him. Once Kay's parents sent him $100 from abroad. Vietnamese police took away serious views and asked several people if the money was used for espionage. Kay is both angry and funny. He wants to know how a hundred dollars can be used as a spy fund. He said it was enough to feed mosquitoes! Even if it's a spy fund, why is it open to him? Kay told me the story himself. After being deported in 1978, Zhen Kai and his family first went to China and finally to the United States. We keep in frequent contact. Mr. Tan is the principal of a primary school. He first came to me because his wife, a primary school teacher, had blisters on her eyelids. It's painful, with a low fever and irritability.  They are especially worried that the eyelids will leave scars and become disfigured. I found it was herpes simplex. Herpes simplex usually occurs in the mouth and lips, rarely in the eyelids; the other is the genitals. I have experience in the treatment of herpes simplex. It wasn't an effective antiviral at the time. I gave her some Chinese medicine and vitamin B, especially B2. After a few hours, the pain gradually eased, and the blisters began to shrink

                  原文:

                  Kai advised me that ethnic Chinese, especially intellectuals with relatives in the South or
                  overseas, should be particularly careful. Fortunately, Vietnam did not have successive political
                  campaigns like China, and those with overseas relations would not become alleged "spy suspects" and
                  suffer persecution. Kai could still do his technician job, so I was really glad for him.
                  One time Kai’s parents remitted 100 U.S. dollars to him from abroad. The Vietnamese police took
                  a serious view of this and inquired of several people if the money was for spy activities. Kai was both
                  irritated and amused, wondering how just a hundred U.S. dollars could be used for a spy fund. He said
                  it was only enough to feed mosquitoes! And even if it were a spy fund, why would it be remitted so
                  publicly to him? This story was told to me by Kai himself.
                  As a result of the 1978 expulsion, Zhen Kai and family went first to China and finally to the
                  United States. We maintained frequent contact.
                  Mr. Tan was principal of a primary school. The first time he sought me was because his wife, a
                  primary school teacher, suffered from small blisters on her eyelids. This was quite painful,
                  accompanied by low fever and irritability. They were especially worried that the eyelids might scar and
                  become "disfigured”. I found it was "herpes simplex”.
                  Herpes simplex usually occurs in the mouth and the lips, and is less common on the eyelids;
                  another type is in the genitals. I had significant experience in treating herpes simplex. At that time there
                  was no effective antiviral drug. I gave her a few Chinese herbs plus vitamin B, especially B2. In a
                  couple of hours the pain eased gradually, the blisters began to atrophy, and the herpes healed in a few
                  days. I gave her medicine and reassured them that as long as she kept the area clean and no secondary
                  infection developed, no scar would form.
                  Mr. Tan continued to have contact with me. He liked to write essays and sometimes showed them
                  to me. I could see that, although his literary level was not necessary high, it often was innovative. Tan
                  was interested in agronomy, the study of soil management and crop production. He planted a dozen
                  citrus and other fruit trees around his evacuee hut, and followed the agronomy book for planting and
                  fertilization. His harvest often was above average.
                  Like many ethnic Chinese, Tan also had a strong Chinese complex, longing for a strong
                  motherland. Influenced by the early Chinese pictorial propaganda he worshiped Mao, and even praised
                  him as "great" in the early stage of Cultural Revolution. Later as he learned more and more facts, he
                  could see that the Cultural Revolution was incomprehensible.
                  In 1978 Tan and his family were among those expelled from Vietnam. They returned to China
                  where he and his wife were appointed primary school teachers. I had communication with them after I
                  came to the United States.
                  In fact, many overseas and ethnic Chinese initially had worshiped the Chinese Communist Party,
                  but gradually withdrew support as they perceived the facts, especially the so-called "three years of
                  natural disasters" the Great Famine and the Cultural Revolution.
                  Learning the Vietnamese Language
                  Although I was living in an ethnic Chinese enclave, it was inevitable that I had contact the outside
                  world. It would be inconvenient and sometimes even dangerous if I did not understand the Vietnamese
                  language. My contacts with ethnic Vietnamese were rare, so I had little opportunity to learn how to
                  speak or comprehend their language. But to learn by reading it was possible. I obtained some used
                  textbooks from primary school students, and bought a Vietnamese-Chinese Dictionary. The dictionary
                  was of great help. Gradually I was able to read newspapers as well as Vietnamese medicinal
                  instructions and medical books. After the reunification of the North and the South Vietnam, a villager
                  received a letter from his Southern relative. He requested me to help translate.
                  Vietnam has its own distinctive language. However, Chinese characters had been used for more
                  than a thousand years. Although the Vietnamese language now uses an alphabet, it still has many
                  phonetic similarities with Chinese, such as the common slogan "Independence, Freedom, Happiness."
                  Terms such as "people", "unification", "university", "doctor", etc. all are equivalent to Chinese. Some
                  words can be traced back to Chinese origin. For example, "dong" is Chinese "copper coin"; “Dong ho”
                  (a clock or watch) is from the "copper kettle clepsydra"; “Vien Han Lam” (Academy of Sciences) as
                  "Hanlin Academy" (the Imperial Academy in feudal China); “tien si” as "jinshi, (imperial
                  academician)”.
                  The pronunciation of these words is somewhat similar to Mandarin or Cantonese. As the
                  Vietnamese language became alphabetized to the ABCs, it looked completely different from Chinese
                  characters. However, this transformation actually was only 200 years old, created by two French
                  priests.
                  Due to the historical origin of the two languages, it was easier for me to read Vietnamese than to
                  speak it. The colloquial use, word order and grammatical expression in Vietnamese are quite different
                  from Chinese, and the spoken language difference is even greater. So I haven't been able to speak much
                  Vietnamese. Occasionally, when I spoke simple sentences learned from the textbook or newspapers,
                  Vietnamese patients (introduced by their Chinese friends) didn't understand and often made jokes.
                  Riding a Bamboo Raft to Safety
                  I was concerned to find food and a place to sleep each day, but even more anxious to avoid the
                  police. Every once in a while, but especially near the Lunar New Year, Vietnamese police usually
                  conducted a "Catching (border-crossed) Chinese" raid. So the traditional "hard time of year end"
                  became a "hard time of safety" for us.
                  Three days before the Spring Festival, every family was busy preparing for the Lunar New Year.
                  Xinyi came back from the town and immediately warned me and the two Deng brothers, also bordercrossed
                  Chinese, that the police had caught a few Chinese in neighboring communes. I panicked but the
                  Deng brothers, who had experienced such events before, were relatively calm. Asking more about the
                  situation, we decided to take evasive action.
                  Xinyi said he had a small bamboo raft and could send us to the other side of the river to hide
                  temporarily. He told us to wear extra clothes and borrow a blanket for each of us.
                  So we went to the river where Xinyi was waiting. We boarded the bamboo raft, poled upstream
                  about half a kilometer into the forest area, and stopped at the other side near a gully. In winter the gully
                  was mostly dry. Xinyi told us to go along the gully and look for a place to hide. He left us a bamboo
                  basket of cooked yams and said he would send more that night.
                  We thanked Xinyi and then walked along the gully. It didn't take long to find a slightly flat place.
                  Each of us chose a stone and sat down with a heavy heart. After a while, we began to talk in low voices
                  about police efforts catch border-crossed Chinese again and again and felt helpless. We talked about the
                  Dong Hoa villagers who were friendly to us. Regarding Xinyi, we were grateful to him for his courage
                  and willingness to help.
                  Xingyi was open-minded and generous. His wife had died a few years before and their eldest
                  daughter was suffering from tuberculosis. The government provided streptomycin and "filatov”. I often
                  went to help her inject and Xinyi served me a light meal with whatever was available. The
                  streptomycin supply was often interrupted. I explained to Xinyi that this would make the bacteria
                  resistant and the drug become less effective. But he said there was no other way. Xinyi's second
                  daughter and son were very filial and helpful.
                  In the evening, Xinyi brought us more food: yam, salty radish and dry bamboo shoots, and said
                  that the latter two were given by Jiaqiu and Wangbao. He also borrowed two blankets for us. We were
                  deeply thankful.
                  At night, we slept in our clothes on the ground. The Deng brothers fell asleep soon in the cool air.
                  I hardly slept well. Looking up at the stars, I imaged the “the sky as a mosquito net and the earth as a
                  bed" as I had on the mountainous journey fleeing to Hong Kong. Recalling my family and familiar
                  things, I could not help but feel dejected. How were my parents and the little Meng now? As the crazy
                  and brutal Cultural Revolution intensified, would their days be even harder than mine? If I had not fled
                  to Vietnam, what would be my situation now? Alive or dead?
                  "The evil power forced me to wander far away, such a long night when it gets dawn?......" the theme song of
                  the Indian movie "Wanderer's Song" echoed in my ears.
                  Curling up and shivering, I became drowsy and slept for a while. Early the next morning, the
                  Deng brothers had already got up and exercised by the stream.
                  Xinyi sent his son that morning on the bamboo raft with more supplies. He brought yams and corn
                  for us and said that he or his father would return that night. We thanked him again.
                  Border-crossed Chinese were usually reluctant to talk about the past, but more often talked about
                  their experience in Vietnam. The two Dengs told me the difficulties and embarrassment of beginning
                  carpentry. After improving, they were hired by more and more people. In addition to board and lodging,
                  they also got a little pay. They suffered no longer from hunger, but were always afraid of the police.
                  Once they were almost caught, but fortunately got a tip-off and escaped. After that they worked only a
                  limited time at each household, then moved to another place.
                  Their carpentry tools were heavy and cumbersome for shoulder carrying, so they hoped to save
                  money and buy a used bicycle for each. Fortunately, they looked like the locals, and their accents were
                  not much different. They were not as likely to be noticed as I was.
                  As we were talking, we heard someone walking in the distance. Immediately alert and about to
                  escape across the gully, we saw that it was just a logger. He also saw us but remained at a distance, did
                  not say hello, and went his own way.
                  I was worried that the logger might report us to the police. The two Dengs laughed and said that
                  people here were not so vigilant and would not do such a wicked thing.
                  Near evening, Xinyi came aboard his raft with a pot of rice, a dish of fried peanuts, and a big pot
                  of mustard greens soup. He said that the rice was given by Wangbao and the fried peanuts by Tingwen.
                  I asked Xinyi to thank them. Xinyi said, "Tomorrow is New Lunar Year's Eve, I guess the police won't
                  come. Just sleep here one more night, I’ll take you back to Dong Hoa tomorrow.” Trying to encourage
                  us with a smile, Xinyi said, "I know you are having a hard time!"
                  I felt his sincere sympathy and our lack of alternatives. Although we must always beware of
                  police and our larger environment was full of risks, fortunately the people around us were full of
                  human kindness, and our immediate environment was relaxed and warm, so we were able to wander for
                  many years in Vietnam. This was unlike China, where the endless "class struggle" distorted humanity,
                  everybody felt insecure, people were mutually suspicious, and even father and son, or husband and
                  wife were incited to deprecate or denounce one another.
                  On the third day, Xinyi’s son came to raft us back to Dong Hoa. I still had a lingering fear and
                  hesitated where to go next. Walking aimlessly, I dropped in at Tingwen’s home. Tingwen was the
                  village security agent, and I had treated his family members several times. He warmly invited me to
                  joint their New Year’s Eve dinner. During the dinner, I was moved by his family’s happy atmosphere. I
                  thought of my parents and family members and little Meng. Even if they were able to get together and
                  have New Year’s Eve dinner, my absence meant "all are here but one person.” I could not help but
                  lament!
                  Like Father and Son
                  There was an old man named Uncle Daan in the north of Dong Hoa village. He was over 80 but
                  was still quite strong and lived alone in a small hut. His daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren lived in
                  a house in front of his.
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                    After the Spring Festival, uncle an has diarrhea. His grandson was sent to help me. After taking the medicine for uncle an, I came back to follow him the next afternoon and found that he had recovered. Uncle Da'an is very happy. He made me rice and fried peanuts. I bought a fresh squid and had a big dinner with Uncle Da'an. He invited me to spend the night. The bed is a plank with straw and cushions, on which are self-made thick, brown dyed, silk mosquito nets. Since then, I have often brought food and food there, eating and sleeping in Uncle Da'an's hut. Uncle Da'an is very happy to welcome me; his daughter, son-in-law and grandson are also very happy to see me. Finally, I found a place where I could go anytime. When I have no patients or come back from other places, I can go directly to Uncle Da'an's hut without worrying about food and accommodation. Uncle Da'an doesn't speak much. He spoke in a whisper. His cottage is about 20 square meters. There is a bed, a table, two or three benches and a water tank. There are several bowls, a pan and a pot on the shelf on the rough wood against the muddy bamboo mat wall. In the center of the hut is a fire pit; an iron ring tripod (locally known as a "three legged cat") cooks there. In winter, uncle Da'an often burns a fire to keep warm. One day, it was cold and rainy; uncle Da'an carried an abandoned log from the mountain and threw it into the fire pit. I saw him at work. Uncle an tried to make the fire smaller and wanted to put out the fire. But Uncle an made the fire bigger and said, "what is missing is money, not wood!" When I lived in Uncle Da'an's house

                    原文:

                    After the Spring Festival, Uncle Daan experienced diarrhea. His grandson was sent to me for help.
                    After giving Uncle Daan some medicine, I returned the next afternoon for follow up and found that he
                    had recovered. Uncle Daan was very happy and cooked rice and fried peanut to treat me. A fisherman
                    came along selling fresh squid, so I bought one and enjoyed a happy dinner with Uncle Daan. He
                    invited me to stay the night. The bed was wooden boards covered with straw and mats, and hung with
                    homemade thick, brown-dyed, silk mosquito net.
                    After that, I often brought rice and food there and ate and slept in Uncle Daan’s hut. Uncle Daan
                    gladly welcomed me; his daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren were happy to see me, too. Finally, I
                    had found a place where I could go anytime. When I had no patient, or returned from another place, I
                    could go directly to Uncle Daan’s hut, and no longer had to worry about finding board and lodging.
                    Uncle Daan didn't talk much. He spoke softly as whispering to himself. His hut was about 20
                    square meters. There were a bed, table, two or three benches, and a water urn. On the simple wooden
                    shelf against the muddy bamboo mat wall were a few bowls, a pan and pots. In the center of the hut
                    was a fire pit; an iron ring tripod (called "three-legged cat" by locals) was there for cooking. In winter,
                    Uncle Daan often burned a big fire to keep warm. One day, it was cold and drizzly; Uncle Daan
                    shouldered in a big abandoned log from the mountain and threw it in the fire pit. I saw him working
                    hard and tried to make the fire smaller to save firewood, but Uncle Daan made the fire bigger and said:
                    "What's short is money but not wood!"
                    While staying at Uncle Daan’s, I still needed to beware of police. To provide an escape exit, I
                    loosened the rattan connection between the bamboo mat walls at the right rear corner of the hut. In an
                    emergency I could force them open to escape. There was a small shed attached on the outside the hut
                    where one could carry water to wash. Sometimes I slept in the shed, from where I could escape quickly
                    at any sign of trouble.
                    One day at noon, I reclined on the bed for a nap. Suddenly I heard hissing from the rear bamboo
                    mat wall behind the bed. I opened my eyes and was awed to see a black striped yellow snake of more
                    than one meter long poking up from between the two layers of bamboo mat and flicking its tongue
                    from side to side. I jumped up and took a wooden stick to hit it. The snake got stuck between the two
                    layers of bamboo mat, was unable to escape and died.
                    Uncle Daan then came in, smiled and said softly: "That’s a three-line snake that only eats mice
                    and is no danger to humans.” He helped pull the snake out with a pair of tongs and threw it to the dogs.
                    But if a snake could enter the hut so easily, I thought, what if it were poisonous and bit us while we
                    were asleep!
                    As I now had income, in addition to buying rice, I also bought oil and sometimes fish and seafood
                    from fishermen coming to the village or from the black market and shared these with Uncle Daan. I
                    bought rice on the black market for about 1.5 dong a kilo (kilogram). My fee for treating a patient,
                    including medicine, was 2 to 4 dong.
                    I gradually learned that in Vietnam, both the "free market" and black market were very active. The
                    prices of rice, sugar, pork, etc. in the free market were usually five to eight times higher than
                    government quantitative supply prices, pork being about 10 dong a kilo. While fish and shrimp aquatic
                    products were available only in the free market (In Haiphong and Hanoi, the government had a
                    quantitative fish supply for residents). Some small commodities, such as locks, knives, hardware tools,
                    nylon yarns (for weaving fish nets), as well as Chinese Traditional and Western medicines, were almost
                    exclusively available from smugglers on the black market. Daily necessities sold at state-run
                    department stores without coupons were cheap and often sold out quickly, mainly benefiting urban
                    residents. Dong Hoa was not far from the town, so villagers sometimes could buy some.
                    Once there were relief blankets from socialist countries on sale. Although they were used and
                    even had holes, people still rushed to buy them. I had someone help me buy three, one for Uncle Daan
                    and two for myself. They were useful when I slept in the wilderness or in a sugar cane field. Once I
                    bought four towels and gave Uncle Daan two. He was pleased and muttered to himself: “Later I can
                    pull it over my shoulder and rub my back when I bathe.”
                    Uncle Daan had been in lifelong poverty. When he could no longer work in the field, he
                    transferred his two water buffalo to his daughter and son-in-law, expecting that they might pension him
                    off and pay for his funeral. Dong Hoa leaders asked the commune to help him apply for government
                    supplied ration of rice, 13 kg per month, 0.3 dong per kilogram.
                    Uncle Daan went to the town twice a month to buy rationed rice. It was very cold when he was
                    going one day, so I gave him one and a half dong, telling him to buy a bowl of pork noodle soup to
                    warm himself at the snack shop run by evacuees. When he came back, he said the soup was sold out.
                    Later I was sad to learn that he had skipped the soup in order to save money. Before Uncle Daan’s next
                    trip to buy rice, I gave money to the snack shop beforehand and told Uncle Daan just to go there and
                    eat. The snack shop owner was moved and gave him a small glass of liquor as a special treat.
                    In rural Vietnam, the Lunar New Year was the biggest festival not only for Chinese but also for
                    Vietnamese, who called the celebration “Tet” (means festival). Dong Hoa villagers took turns
                    butchering pigs. Like other villagers I was invited to eat pork, but also bought some back to Uncle
                    Daan who salted and saved a portion of it.
                    In addition, every family made dumplings of glutinous rice. It was long big dumpling about half a
                    kilo, stuffed with pork, mung bean, peanut, and wrapped with several layers of bamboo or palm leaves.
                    After steaming, it could be kept for more than 10 days. When I visited a patient, I could always eat the
                    fragrant fried dumplings. In addition, the patient’s family sometimes gave me one. One year I received
                    12 dumplings, so not only Uncle Daan and I, but also several fellow border-crossed Chinese, together
                    had a festive Lunar New Year.
                    In Dong Hoa, the number of border-crossed Chinese often reached a total of six or seven. Three or
                    four of them boarded with relatives, but the rest would temporarily stay in Uncle Daan’s hut when they
                    had nowhere else to go. "We all are wandering at the end of the world. We meet, we understand, what
                    does acquaintance matter?" In this way, Uncle Daan’s hut became a fraternity house of "Chinese guys”.
                    Comfortably settled in Uncle Daan’s hut, I came and went for several years. Uncle Daan and I got
                    along like father and son. Once, after Aunt Liu had butchered a pig, I brought a piece of pork back to
                    Uncle Daan. Aunt Liu had said with emotion, "Uncle Daan benefits from you!" I replied, "It’s me who
                    benefits from Uncle Daan! Whenever I come back from outside I have a place to stay.”
                    During my time with Uncle Daan I ate a variety of seafood such as fresh squid, cuttlefish,
                    octopus, clams, mussels, crabs, snails which I rarely saw in China, as well as sand worms, shark meat,
                    skate, horseshoe crab, which I had never seen before, and rarely ate later.
                    One time I went to a neighboring commune to see a patient. She had severe pain in her right thigh
                    for more than 10 days and had difficulty eating and sleeping. I suspected a deep abscess and tried to
                    draw it with a long needle syringe. After extracting the pus, the patient's pain was relieved immediately.
                    The whole family was very pleased and paid me 10 dong, equivalent to one kilogram of pork on the
                    black market and almost four times my usual fee.
                    It was the season, so the patient’s husband brought crabs back from the beach to freshly cook. He
                    put a few pieces on a plate saying, "These are the soft shell crabs which have just replaced their old
                    shells. After two hours the shell will harden. We can eat them whole with the soft shells. They are
                    delicious!" This was my first time eating soft shell crab. Wow! Very delicious! I ate two. They wanted
                    to serve me a third but I could eat no more.
                    Twenty years later when I visited a classmate in New York, the hostess (also a schoolmate at
                    Beijing Medical College) took out a dish of soft shell crabs and said she had lined up to buy them in the
                    market. They were delicious, but not as good as those in my memory which were caught alive and
                    cooked freshly. I told my classmates about my experience of eating soft shell crab when I wandered in
                    Vietnam and explained that the soft shell might last only two hours. These soft-shell crabs sold in the
                    market might be frozen immediately after being caught, so the taste was not so satisfying. They were
                    interested to learn this.
                    Wandering seven years in North Vietnam, I tasted not only the bitter, spicy and sour but also the
                    sweet things. I often reflected on the homeland where I was born and grew up, which regretfully had
                    become a place of constant risk with no place for shelter.
                    Uncle Daan’s Hut Becomes a ‘Clinic’
                    Now that I was based in Uncle Daan’s hut, some patients came to see me directly. I examined
                    them at the dining table. With Uncle Daan’s help, I placed a piece of long plank on two big rocks
                    against one side of the bamboo mat wall to serve as a workbench. I could sit on a low stool before it to
                    prepare and dispense medicine. Therefore, the hut seemed like a “clinic”! However, when examining a
                    patient I still needed to be watchful for the unexpected arrival of police, or else ask someone else to act
                    as a lookout.
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                      Gradually, I have more patients and my income has increased. I have to save some money for an emergency but not too much. Even if I have more money, I have no place to put it. Therefore, for the poor patients, I charge less or even no fees. I remember my father was also a doctor. He said when I was a child, "a dollar may not be anything for the rich, but it's not easy for the poor!" One night, I was about to sleep in Uncle Da'an's hut when I heard someone crying from afar. When I saw a couple carrying a child running desperately to me, calling "the third elder brother" (they usually call me that), help! Help! "It's changed. Their four-year-old child suddenly twitches, loses consciousness, and his eyes turn white. I touched the hot boy. I took his temperature and gave him a quick check of the heart, lungs, abdomen and nervous system during this period. But his temperature is 40.6 degrees Celsius. I immediately wiped his groin on his forehead and armpit with a wet and cold towel and injected him with antipyretic. In less than half an hour to start down, the child woke up, his parents greatly relieved. I gave them more medicine and told them to call their children every four hours. If there is any problem, call me right away. Just then, I noticed a crowd gathered outside the door. They said it was lucky that the third brother came. Otherwise, if the boy is sent to the hospital, he may not survive the trip. In fact, a child with a convulsive fever is really terrible, but convulsions are usually

                      原文:
                      Gradually I had more patients and my income increased. I had to have some savings for urgent
                      needs but did not have need for much beyond that. Even if I had had more money, I had nowhere to put
                      it. Therefore, for poor patients I charged less or even nothing. I recalled my father, also a doctor, saying
                      when I was a child, "One yuan may be nothing for the rich; but is not easy for the poor!"
                      One evening, as I was going to sleep in Uncle Daan’s hut, I suddenly heard someone crying and
                      yelling from faraway. Alerted, I stood up and started out when I saw a couple holding a child and
                      running desperately to me, calling “Brother Third (They usually called me such), help! help!” It turned
                      out that their child of four had a sudden convulsion and lost consciousness, his eyeballs turning white.
                      I touched the boy who was very hot. I measured his temperature and during that time gave him a
                      quick check of heart, lung, abdomen and nervous system and found nothing abnormal. But his
                      temperature was 40.6 C. I immediately rubbed him with a cold damp towel on the forehead, armpits
                      and groin, and gave him an injection of a fever reducing drug. In less than half an hour the temperature
                      began to come down, the child awoke and his parents were greatly relieved. I gave them more medicine
                      and told them to dose the child every four hours; if there was any further problem, call me immediately.
                      It was then I noticed a crowd of people gathering outside the door. They said it was fortunate that
                      Brother Third was here. Otherwise, if the boy were sent to the hospital, he might not have survived the
                      journey. In fact, a child with convulsion and high fever was indeed very scary, but the convulsion
                      usually happened just once and if there were no other problems, the child usually would be alright. I
                      reassured the parents that they should not worry too much.
                      The next morning, I went to the boy’s home to follow-up and found the child playing happily in
                      the front yard. His parents, preparing to go to work, seeing me, smiled with relief and thanked me again
                      and again. I also felt comfortable and relaxed that things had turned out well. If I were in China, I
                      thought, what would happen to me now? Criticized and denounced? Paraded through the streets with a
                      board hanging on my neck? Sent to forced labor? Or confined to a bullpen to write self-criticism and
                      self-depreciation?
                      One year during winter, there was an epidemic of measles and many children in Dong Hoa were
                      infected. I was busy every day and had to look after seriously ill children at night. When residents from
                      other communes requested me to go there, Dong Hoa villagers reluctantly lied that I was not available.
                      Regardless, a man from Dong Ngu came to me and said his four children were ill and one of them was
                      "lost.” I hesitated, realizing that if I visited there just once I might not solve the problem. Also, his
                      neighbors might ask me to treat their children, making it impossible for me to leave. However, I had
                      treated his family before, had a meal and slept in his home, so it seemed unjust to refuse. I went with
                      him that evening, and asked him not to inform his neighbors.
                      Entering the door, I found a Buddhist master walking back and forth in the hall. He muttered
                      prayers supposed to help ward off evil. On the ledge under an ancestral tablet was a pair of lit candles
                      and a cooked chicken for consecration. The sick child’s father, thinking I might be unhappy at this
                      sight, hastily explained that the god had to be prayed to and the doctor also had to be sought. I
                      understood their anxiety and said it did not matter to me. I treated the disease and the master did his
                      work, too. At dinner, the master and I sat together and conversed politely. The main dish was the
                      consecrated chicken, an unexpected treat indeed!
                      After a busy night, I returned Dong Hoa the next morning. Although very tired, I felt relieved that
                      I had done the right thing.
                      Another day a resident of Dong Hai commune came and requested me to go with him for help.
                      He said that his three children infected with measles all had high fevers. Dong Hai Commune was
                      about 10 kilometers away. Because I had been busy for all day and had a child with a high fever
                      receiving intravenous drip, I reluctantly declined and watched him leave in disappointment. Later I
                      learned that one of his children died and felt a pang of guilt.
                      A patient from a neighboring county came to see me. He was in his 20s, skinny and short, and his
                      eyes shifted up and down as he talked. The young man was suffering from an acute urinary tract
                      infection; I gave him antibiotics and told at least seven days of treatment was required. He agreed,
                      saying that after completion of the treatment he would pay me in full. But after five days, thinking he
                      was well, the young man left without paying. He spread rumors in town that his treatment by “the
                      Chinese guy Deng Third” had caused no improvement and even made him worse.
                      When this slander reached Dong Hoa, the villagers were indignant at him. I felt powerless
                      knowing that my five injections had brought his symptoms under control but did not mean the infection
                      was cured and likely would relapse. Sure enough, two weeks later the young man returned to see me.
                      Dong Hoa villagers urged me to ignore him and I was tempted to do so. However, my sense of
                      professional responsibility told me otherwise. If I didn't complete his treatment, the infection could
                      become chronic and afflict him for a lifetime. That was too great a punishment. Therefore, I continued
                      treatment but asked him to pay each time.
                      "The same rice feeds various people.” the villagers said.
                      Penicillin Anaphylactic Shock
                      A female villager had sore throat. It was tonsillitis so I was going to give her an injection of
                      penicillin. When I was in China, penicillin injection had to be skin tested first. Here it was
                      impracticable to do so because I might use penicillin only once in several days. Preparing a dilution for
                      dozens of skin tests without injections would be wasteful. So if the patient had no previous injection of
                      penicillin, I would apply a drop of penicillin on the patient’s skin and prick it a few times to test for
                      allergy, then give the injection. Although this was not completely reliable, and might even cause
                      anaphylactic shock, it still was preferable to direct injection with no pre-test. As a precaution, I placed
                      an ampoule of adrenaline and an ampoule of promethazine in the syringe box to use in case of
                      emergency.
                      The tonsillitis patient said that she had several previous injections of penicillin. Not believing she
                      would have an allergic reaction, I proceeded with the shot. Unexpectedly, in just a minute or two, the
                      patient panicked and complained of itching over her entire body. I knew at once it was anaphylaxis (an
                      acute allergic reaction), so I immediately took out the adrenaline, with a "pop" tore open the ampoule to
                      draw out the liquid, and quickly gave her an injection. Right after the injection, the patient felt her heart
                      pounding madly and burst out screaming. I was scared. Fortunately, she soon calmed down. Trembling,
                      I then gave her an injection of an anti-allergic drug. Fortunately, everything turned out well.
                      My fears lingered after this incident. If the patient had died from the anaphylactic shock, not only
                      her family and friends would suffer forever, but I also would suffer forever. As I was an illegal "bordercrossed
                      Chinese" doctor, what my fate be? My situation was so fragile that any mistake or accident
                      might affect my destiny. I had escaped catastrophe once again. Thank God, I thought. May the Lord
                      continue to help me.
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                        Sleep on a field or hillside

                        Of course, when I live in Uncle Da'an's cabin, it's convenient to go to the clinic. However, with more and more patients coming, I wonder how the police don't know. So I'm always on my guard. During the day when I treat a patient, I may have someone watch outside, but that's more difficult at night. So, I often sleep outside in the wash shed connected with the hut, so that I can escape more easily in an emergency. If I go to see a patient later in the afternoon, I'll go to bed at the patient's home if possible. Otherwise I would sleep on sugarcane fields or mountain slopes. In my time with Uncle Da'an, as time goes by, I sleep more and more frequently outdoors. One problem with sleeping in the wilderness is fog; when I wake up in the morning, my hair and blankets are usually wet. Another problem is mosquito or insect bites. Later, I asked someone to buy me a small mosquito net. I tied a small bamboo pole at both ends of the net and tied it up with a long rope connected with a hook. I hook the branch and adjust the length of the rope so that I can hang the net quickly.  Many times I can only hang one end, so I put the other end under the stone. Other times when there is nothing to hook, I break the basket, dig a hole, pour it on the ground, hang a corner net to cover my head. I always sleep in my clothes. Whenever I hear the unusual noise of dogs barking in the village, I will wake up immediately and prepare to run away. Sometimes it rained suddenly, and wet clothes embarrassed me. To av

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                          he crisis of Banlan commune
                          Mr. Qian asked me to treat a patient in Banlan commune in the north of Donghua. I made an appointment and expressed my concern to Qian Xuesen: "there are films there (a ethnic minority in Vietnam, they are often unfriendly to Chinese people across the border). Should we go?" Qian Xuesen assured me that he knew the chairman of the commune. We arrived at a Chinese family. When I examined the patient, someone called to pay for it.  About half an hour later, Qian Xuesen came back solemnly and said, "let's go." I had just finished seeing the patient, and I packed my supplies immediately. Qian Xuesen said a few words to the surprised homeowner, took me out and said, "we don't take the highway, but go back from another road." When I was nervous, I ran quietly with the money. After a while, Qian told me that he had found some people when he was taken to the commune. The chairman asked Mr. Qian to sit down. As a group, Qian Xuesen talks to himself in mixed Vietnamese and Vietnamese, which makes him feel uneasy. The chairman then hinted that he should leave. Hearing all this, I was more nervous and stepped up. Ten minutes later, we found a noise behind us. "They may be after us!" Qian Xuesen said in a low voice, "after the mountain, you will be in front of the ferry; the other side of the river is no longer the Banlan commune." Then he said, "if we follow cliff, it's faster than a detour. But under the cliff is the river. Are you afraid? You... Do you swim? " I said I'm not afraid. I can swim. So we climbed the cliff to escape. "Be careful!" Money shouted. Before I finished, there was a stone under my feet

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