Star reporter Scott Simmie recalls his time in
China, covering the 1989 pro-democracy movement known as Tiananmen Square.
Twenty
five years ago, the world witnessed the remarkable student-led pro-democracy
movement in China. Reporter Scott Simmie got a closer view than most of the
events in and around Tiananmen Square, and reflects on that astonishing Beijing
Spring.
By: Scott Simmie World Affairs, Published on Mon Jun 02 2014
The boxes
have barely been touched in a quarter of a century.
Inside
them is a personal record of the student protests that rocked China — and
captivated the world: The 1989 pro-democracy movement known as Tiananmen
Square.
There are
cassettes, scores of them, filled with the voices and sounds of that Beijing
spring — including the blunt violence of its conclusion. There are photographs,
notes, T-shirts — even a 10-metre banner that once proudly adorned the Monument
to the People’s Heroes in the square.
This is
my stuff; gathered during six weeks of reporting in Tiananmen and on the
streets — and also during the more than two years prior to that when I lived
and worked alongside Chinese at Beijing’s China Central Television.
My stuff;
but not my story. On this 25th anniversary, it’s time to share this hidden
archive.
By the
late 1980s, much had changed since the days when people were expected to
memorize quotations in Mao Zedong’s Little Red Book. Economic reforms and an
open-door policy had left China a little less xenophobic, a little more willing
to relax the rules. And young people, like young people anywhere, were willing to
test them.
Scott
Simmie/Toronto Star
Rock star
Cui Jian - who pushed the boundaries with his lyrics.
Now,
instead of memorizing Mao, some of China’s youth were slyly mocking him. The
most popular rock star at the time was Cui Jian — and the chorus of one of his
most popular songs was: “One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.” To many, it was a
deliberate jab at mindless repetition, at learning meaningless phrases by rote.
Yet it was not so explicit, so incendiary, that it could be banned. It was open
to interpretation.
So, too,
were the early days of the student protests.
The
catalyst had been the death of Hu Yaobang, the former general secretary of the
Communist Party of China. On the surface, the students were simply mourning a
great comrade, paying homage to a former leader.
But it
was more than that. Hu had been disgraced, and ousted from his role, after
student demonstrations took place briefly in late 1986 and early 1987. Hu and
“bourgeois liberalization” — a catchphrase for western thought and ideals —
were blamed. He was, to the students, a martyr. They would honour him, but for
their own reasons.
They
began to march the 15-kilometre route from the university district to Tiananmen
Square, the symbolic heart of the country, the place where Revolutionary Heroes
are honoured. Solemnly carrying Hu’s portrait and wearing white chrysanthemums,
they would sing.
The
Internationale — that stirring socialist tune and the de facto hymn of the
Communist party — was an anthem on that long and oft-repeated march that brief
Beijing spring. But, like the lyrics of Cui Jian, one could not help but wonder
if there was a double entendre:
The blood
which fills my chest has boiled over,
We must
struggle for truth!
The old
world shall be destroyed
Arise,
slaves, arise!
Listen: Internationale
Strategically,
it was brilliant. How could the authorities argue the students were unpatriotic
— anti-government, even — if they were singing a piece so revered? How could
they be condemned for mourning a comrade?
With
every successful demonstration, the students gained a little strength. Support
from the sidelines — spectators applauding and shouting their approval — grew.
In a country where it sometimes felt like you couldn’t get even the simplest
thing done without a bribe or the right connection, this talk of greater
transparency and an end to corruption struck a chord.
The
movement also, in an age when social media consisted of conversation, quickly
spread beyond Beijing. Demonstrations had turned to riots in two cities far
from the capital. There had been violence, arson, looting and arrests.
The
government wanted it to end, especially since then-Soviet President Mikhail
Gorbachev was due to arrive in mid-May for a summit — thrusting Beijing into
the global spotlight. But that was easier said than done, complicated vastly by
the fact hardliners and moderates at senior levels disagreed over how to
respond.
One
early, disastrous attempt was an editorial in the People’s Daily that appeared
April 26. It suggested the movement was being manipulated by a small group of
extremists whose aim was to overthrow the government.
“Their
purpose is to poison people’s minds, create national turmoil and sabotage the
nation’s political stability. This is planned conspiracy, which in essence aims
at negating the leadership of the socialist system.”
It was
meant as a warning shot of an impending campaign. But because the statement was
so blatantly untrue, it achieved the opposite of its intended effect. It
incensed the students, who had not been calling for radical change, and
galvanized their supporters. In the blink of an eye, students mobilized
demonstrations outside the People’s Daily and other state-run media outlets,
accusing them of speaking “false talk.”
Inside,
journalists knew the students were right. And, by May 4, they too began to test
the limits of their largely self-imposed censorship. Open coverage — a key
student demand — was even encouraged by Communist party General Secretary Zhao
Ziyang, a moderate whom the students regarded as an ally.
This
new-found press freedom created a positive feedback loop. Citizens watching
unbiased coverage knew not only that change was in the wind — but that the
students were representing grievances they shared. Soon even those who had been
reluctant to join were in the streets. A little more than a week after its
stinging editorial, The People’s Daily was now reporting that “hundreds of
thousands” demonstrated May 4 (including many of its own reporters).
China is,
as many observers will tell you, a nation of voyeurs. Everything from a traffic
accident to a spilled carton of eggs will draw a small crowd. Often, however,
participation is limited to ascribing innocence or guilt, praise or
condemnation (the latter, a skill finely honed during the Cultural Revolution).
This was different. People were joining the cause, not merely watching it.
Scott
Simmie Photo
During
the major May 4 demonstration, 14 rows of officers attempted to stop the
marchers from proceeding. Citizens pushed through the lines, clearing a path
for the students.
On May 4,
on the broad Chang’an Boulevard, journalists counted a formidable barrier of 14
rows of officers, arms linked. As the students approached, it was the
bystanders who first surged into the lines. The police began to yield, like
human taffy, until the arms inevitably unlinked. A victorious cheer rose up —
truly, rose up — as the students continued.
At
Tiananmen, the students climbed the stairs at the base of the Monument to the
People’s Heroes unopposed. They made speeches with megaphones — within shouting
distance of the Great Hall of the People, the country’s political hub. No one
stopped them.
A little
more than a week later, students upped the ante with a hunger strike — and an
encampment in Tiananmen. The fact the strike was starting two days before
Gorbachev’s arrival was no coincidence; the students knew there were plans for
an official welcome in or near the square. If the government wanted this place,
it would have to negotiate. Several hundred students took the initial pledge to
fast, with even more joining later.
Bamboo
poles and tarps formed makeshift tents; volunteer doctors, nurses and medical
students created a mini-hospital. Loudspeakers blared speeches from student
leaders, and small hand-cranked printing machines churned out pamphlets.
Ambulances ferried those who collapsed to hospital for treatment; many would
return and continue their strike as soon as they were released.
Despite a
government request, the students did not clear the square for Gorbachev’s
arrival — and the official ceremony took place at the airport instead. Many
journalists in Beijing for the visit gravitated to the much more cacophonous
and electric story in the streets.
Listen: Worker at Tiananmen Square
It was a
challenge for many (myself included) not to oversimplify the movement, to show
bias in favour of the students. To do so, however, would have been to ignore
some harsh realities. The students were not terribly well organized and their
demands seemed to meander. They were young — perhaps even a little drunk with
power — and somewhat naive.
The
reality for those in power was that the Cultural Revolution that began in 1966
— a decade of chaos bordering on national madness — was still fresh. To them,
stability was unquestionably in the best interests of the country. Even if it
took force to achieve it.
On May
17-18, things reached a zenith of sorts, with the largest demonstrations of the
movement. Observers guessed at least a million took part (including many police
who marched) — and that was just in Beijing. Later reports would suggest
simultaneous protests had taken place in 400 cities outside the capital. The
government, losing control, prepared to act.
On
Friday, May 19, a defeated-looking Zhao Ziyang came and spoke to students early
in the morning. (The conservative Premier Li Peng accompanied him, but left
quickly.)
Speaking
through a megaphone, Zhao pleaded with them to leave. “You are still young,
there are many days yet to come,” he said. “You must live healthy . . . We are
already old. It doesn’t matter to us anymore.” He appeared on the verge of
tears — and probably was. He knew what was coming. That emotional speech would
be his last public appearance.
The
following day, martial law was declared. Helicopters swooped low, repeatedly,
over the square. Leaflets were dropped, informing those in Tiananmen they were
breaking the law and needed to leave. The response was defiance. People were
now openly leading chants calling for the overthrow of the leadership. “Down
with Li Peng! Down with Deng Xiaoping!” It was outright sedition.
Some
students, frightened at the turn of events or at the urging of their parents,
started to abandon the square. For Chinese media, a steel door had just closed
on open reporting. Crowds began thinning and the square started falling into
disarray. It was garbage-strewn, fetid. One day, I noticed a crumpled red cloth
ball at my feet. It was a 10-metre banner, offering support to the students
from bus drivers. It was filthy and reeked of urine — but would also someday be
a piece of history.
Scott
Simmie / Toronto Star
A
10-metre banner, along with a sampling of the artifacts Scott Simmiei brought
back from Beijing in 1989.
The army
tried, repeatedly, to enter the city. And repeatedly, citizens managed to
peacefully stop the advance. “You are the People’s Army — the People’s
Army,” Beijingers told them. The military continued to mass on Beijing’s outskirts.
The
students would play one more card.
At the
Central Academy of Fine Arts, students worked feverishly on a sculpture. She
was built in four sections and wheeled to Tiananmen on May 29 for assembly. By
the following morning, she was ready.
The
Goddess of Democracy stood 10 metres tall. Blinding white, pure, she held aloft
a torch. Though it prompted instant comparisons to the Statue of Liberty, the
sculpture was not intended to represent the famous work.
Inspiring,
yes. But also an affront. She was positioned directly across from the
omnipresent portrait of Mao Zedong. She seemed to be challenging him, taunting
him, daring him.
Even some
supporters felt the students had gone too far. “That’s a very stupid thing to
do,” said one Chinese journalist. “It seems to me that a lot of students are
pushing for a confrontation.”
The final
assault came the night of June 3-4, with the army approaching from the north,
south, east and west. Soldiers in the back of trucks carried guns and many
brandished long flexible rods, a little longer than 1.5 metres, with heavy
metal stars affixed to the end. I did not witness these being used, but their
only purpose could have been to damage soft tissue and bone.
Crowds,
including people in pyjamas, were urgently trying to persuade the soldiers to
listen, to leave. It was futile. These soldiers, the ones I saw, were
different. Expressionless. They did not appear to look at the people addressing
them. Rather, they seemed to look through them.
The
beginning of the assault near the square was brutal. Soldiers were lined up,
shoulder-to-shoulder, across the width of Chang’an, firing in the direction of
the crowd. Some large trees lining the street, where the army believed people
might be hiding, had been set on fire. Students and citizens, in disbelief,
shouted to each other not to be scared, that they were shooting blanks.
Chanting, they would charge toward the soldiers — only to be driven back by
volleys. Then they would regroup, and charge yet again. It was incredibly
brave, and incredibly sad.
The
gravely wounded, and dead, were whisked away. One limp young man, his neck
crimson, was rushed through the crowd. He had been standing, uninjured, just
moments earlier. When a bullet hit the ground by my feet, it was time to go.
Back at
the Palace Hotel, I filed radio reports non-stop for the CBC and elsewhere that
night, struggling to process and convey what I had just witnessed. I could hear
the gunfire and chaos from my room, but did not risk returning to the square
that night. It was clear what was going to happen.
I did not
see the famous “tank man” — the civilian who stood up to a column of tanks near
Tiananmen on June 5 — except on video later that day. But there is no more apt
icon of that movement. Time magazine would later name him one of the 100 most
influential people of the 20th century.
JEFF
WIDENER/The Associated Press File Photo
A Chinese
man blocks a line of tanks on June 5, 1989. He became known as "tank
man," an apt icon of the movement.
Before
long, the government would famously and contentiously state: “No one died in
Tiananmen Square.”
While it
was true that the majority of the students were allowed to leave Tiananmen
peacefully, there can be no question many students and civilians died around
the square, and on the streets leading to the square, and even on the
balconies of their apartments. (Some may well have died, as some students
contend, when tanks ran over tents in the square.)
More
would die even after the night of the assault — as sporadic shootings took
place in the streets. One of the most egregious cases was witnessed by reporter
and sinologist Jonathan Mirsky, who had himself been severely beaten the
previous night.
“The next
morning, Sunday, June 4, I cycled back to the edge of the square just in time
to see soldiers mow down parents of students who had come to look for those who
had not returned home and who were feared to have been killed and their bodies
burned,” he wrote.
“While I
lay in the grass at the side of the avenue, doctors and nurses from the Peking
Union Hospital . . . arrived in an ambulance and in their bloodstained gowns
went among the fallen; the soldiers shot them down, too.”
How many
in total, precisely? There is no definitive answer. The best estimates are
likely that around 300 civilians were killed, with many thousands wounded and
injured. An early Chinese Red Cross report of 2,600 dead — still in my notes —
was quickly withdrawn.
Within
days, the campaign was underway. Chinese news, once again doing the work of the
state, flashed pictures of the Most Wanted. It wasn’t just the student leaders
they were after; the net was wide. Every day, there were new faces, or video of
another handcuffed person being dragged into custody. The country called on
every good citizen with information to come forward.
On my return
to Canada with fellow journalist Bob Nixon (who had also been in the streets
through this remarkable period), we wrote a book. Everything was still fresh;
raw, and a little bit unreal.
"Tiananmen
Square" by Scott Simmie and fellow Canadian journalist Bob Nixon upon
their return to Canada.
And then,
after returning to Toronto, all that stuff went into all those boxes.
I’ve been
back to China twice since 1989 — the last a trip for the 2008 Olympics. Beijing
is a very different city now, where Gucci stores and Starbucks outlets (which
would have been labelled trappings of “bourgeois liberalization” in the late
’80s) coexist with traditional tea shops, and where luxury autos are no longer
uncommon.
Most of
the traditional hutongs (small community alleyways) and courtyard homes
have been destroyed to make way for the new. A great number of plainclothes
police and security cameras ensure nothing untoward happens in Tiananmen
Square.
And
still, I love the place.
About two
years earlier, in an Ontario park, I happened across a group of maybe eight
students from China. They were here studying, and about the same age as those
who had risked so much back in 1989. They had nice, fashionable clothes, the
latest phones and seemed friendly. I spoke a few words to them in Mandarin and
told them I used to work in their country. They were thrilled.
When I’d
exhausted my limited vocabulary, we switched to English. I told them I had been
in the square, witnessed the protests and had been there the night of June 3-4.
I said I had seen people shot.
There
were blank stares, uncomfortable expressions, an awkward silence. Then one of
them spoke.
“We . . .
don’t believe that happened,” he said.
His
friends, all of them, nodded in agreement.
Follow Scott Simmie on Twitter: @scottsimmie
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