“Then a police van crashed into four bicyclists late Friday night, generating new outrage against the Government. One cyclist was killed instantly, and two died in the hospital Saturday, while the fourth seemed less seriously hurt…”
Knife blades clink-clunk lyrically off the side as the knife man methodically push his bicycle through the serpentine hutong. The modesty of late spring lingers still in the June-day morning vapors, but he knows by noon his white headscarf would be soaked. He swings the spare towel over his shoulders and hollers again.
“mooooo jiannz leeeeeeeee,” she catches the last part of his tune through the window still covered in newspaper from the winter.
“Ahy!” She yells as her feet slip into the cotton shoes with thicker soles. Her new-fashioned son has snickered at her footwear habit many a times. New woman of the new Age embrace liberty, democracy, imported sneakers.
At the branch two houses down the clinking stops. “Hereeee!” The clink-clunk resumes.
He has already set up shop on the streetside when she marches out with their machete. Sugar cane season still an entire summer away, but she needed a reason to get some talk.
“Yo-hei! This big fellow! I’ve seen it since your father’s time. You still using it?”
She kicks the bike lightly and laughs through her nose. “You still riding this junk?”
He smiles, looking down to examine the blade as he shakes his head. “You don’t say, old dingus are actually work pretty well! Can’t find a knife like this now.”
“Yeah, Aiguo brought back this motor bike, fucking excited like he was having a seizure. Neighbors’ kids all came see it. Tututu, tututututu. Louder than mother-fucking firecrackers. Burns more gasoline than a tank! Now this big thing blocks half the street and attracts dust. So much dust!”
He giggled quietly as he begins his task. She grabs a sweeper, collecting loose yellow dirt into a pile. Yee yah from the knife and stone symphony rings on steadily, broken suddenly by baby screams.
“How did you get here? Don’t you live in Chaoyang?”
“Ah, few days back my nephew needed help with his butcher shop. Young men have all gone to the square. After busying for bigger half of the day I was just looking forward to go home for some mutton momo–Yo-hei!–before I made two steps I saw there’s a wall in the street. I got closer–what kind of wall that was?! Just people, standing, children stacking on top of one another. Army marching into the city! Heiyaya a field a green. All afternoon I thought someone was fixing their house, who would’ve thought it’s the boots.”
She continues to sweep the dust. Dried willow leaf waltzes down. She glides it into the pile.
“Where did they get that many soldiers from?”
He doesn’t answer, finishes grinding the machete.
“You don’t think they’re really going to fire?” She turns around to lean the sweeper against the wall. A group of kids run down the stairs from the house behind, kick over her pile of dust.
“Careful!” the knife-sharpener scolds lovingly.
“Do you kids have no eyes?” She joins.
“I’ve got eyes to see big tanks!” One of the kids shouts.
“Sha?”
“Erga says tanks are rolling in. Very big, big enough to hide people!”
“The turning tires can squash a person like I squash an ant!”
“Rumors were less meticulous about detail, and word spread early Saturday morning through the capital that four people had been killed by the police. Tens of thousands of people took to the streets to protest, and immediately found themselves confronting more than 2,000 unarmed troops who were marching toward Tiananmen Square.”
Cui Guozheng, male, 1968-1989, born in Jilin, Manchurian, The Chinese People’s Liberation Army serving officer.
In the small hours of June 4th, 1989, the army vehicle Cui Guozheng was operating arrives at the intersection between Chongwenmen Dajia and Xidajie. It was blocked by a group of angry citizens fortifying the street with bricks, fruit carts, motorbikes, and their staunch stance.
Cui and several cadets exited the army vehicle to negotiate with obstructers. Two older women kneeled as they demand the army turn around, on account of protecting their children. After escalating quarrels, Cui retrieved his standard deploy handgun and fired into the crowd. At least one man, one woman, and one child were shot.
The crowd began attacking Cui and others with bricks, stick, and fists. Cui originally attempted to shelter inside the vehicle, but tried to escape after the crowd broke the car windows. He was forced onto the tianqiao (“sky bridge”, overhead walkway) by a crowd led by three older women.
A woman about 40 years old poured gasoline upon Cui’s body and a man supplied the match.
“The troops retreated, but that confrontation seemed to set the tone for the massive demonstrations later Saturday and early today.”
Bolded text by Nicholas Kristof for NYTimes (https://www.nytimes.com/1989/06/04/world/crackdown-beijing-troKops-attack-crush-beijing-protest-thousands-fight-back.html)
Notes:
The inspiration/source behind this story comes from my father. One day when we were on a bus, my usually silent father looked out the window agitatedly. He turns my shoulder and points to an overhead walkway–“that’s the bridge on which Beijing dama poured gasoline and burnt soldier on June 4th.”
dama literally means big ma, used to refer to all women around the age of menopause. I see it as the hybrid between the babushka and a South Asian aunty, with derogatory connotations of age, lack of feminity, but also a talent for gossip. This figure is pertinent to thinking feminism as they usually don’t identify as “feminists”, even often against the idea, but enact dignity, character, and pride that I think feminism works toward.
When writing this piece, my own language appalled me occasionally, especially when I tried to edit down the length. There seems to be an inherent arrogance that comes with hindsight. I couldn’t walk the edge between sarcasm and compassion very well like Keene, so I allowed myself more space to flesh out the figure. I also followed Keene’s line of letting the characters speak for themselves, even though I tried to fill the page with as much silence as possible. I don’t wish to construct a heroic figure, and it seems like silence is the most mundane but human aspect of life.
