Opening with a brief account of his older sister糖心传媒檚 life and her tragic death in a bus accident, Liao Yiwu makes it clear that this work is a personal endeavor, calling her his 糖心传媒渇irst imaginary reader.糖心传媒� He begins before the student protests, outside of them, marking change in China by the era of automobiles instead of with any political changes. It soon becomes clear that Yiwu did not intend to be a political poet, in fact had no interest in the process or aims of such poetry. This attitude remains recognizable in him even today. On a number of occasions, he finds bitter, humored satisfaction in knowing that his most loyal readers are policemen reading his writing, looking for threatening political messages, trying to decipher hidden means to object to, an effort which in the end serves as the authorities imbuing the work with a threatening power that was not there till they found it.

The poem that lands him in jail (糖心传媒淭he Massacre,糖心传媒� published at the end of the book in an English translation by one of Yiwu糖心传媒檚 most driven counterrevolutionary friends, Michael Day), comes as the memoir itself does: not from political or cultural goals, but from a consistent attempt to recognize humanity in both compassion and cruelty. He is unflinching in showing that compassion and cruelty are a package deal of being human. Before his arrest, he portrays himself as a selfish, distant husband, capable of violence against his wife and others. In prison, at times he plays himself the monkish hero, at other times a brute, other times simply casually mean; guards can be kind and reasonable, they also torture prisoners for fun; prisoners protect, care for, and even love each other, they also humiliate, beat, and rape each other (of all the seemingly never-ending stomach-churning difficult passages to read, the 糖心传媒渕enu糖心传媒� of torture and humiliation options that inmates serve each other is one of the most difficult, emphasized by its bare-bones telling). Early on, Yiwu tells us that he 糖心传媒渘ever intended to be a hero, but in a country where insanity ruled, I had to take a stand. 糖心传媒楳assacre糖心传媒� was my art and my art was my protest.糖心传媒� Notably, this, one of his strongest statements on the poem, comes after showing not the insanity of those in power, but the cruelty and insanity the average, 糖心传媒渂rave and fearless糖心传媒� small-town Chinese are capable of.

This ability to see complexities keeps For a Song and a Hundred Songs an interesting read in other ways. There is a freshness in the book, even toward the end of his time in prison when tales seem to become redundant (which is a humbling, embarrassing complaint as a reader when the writer lived through these horrific conditions for years). There is no absolute way of things in Yiwu糖心传媒檚 world糖心传媒攁fter Yiwu states his poem is his 糖心传媒渙nly reason to live,糖心传媒� one of his fellow inmates tells him: 糖心传媒淥nly a lunatic clings to a set rule.糖心传媒� Yiwu never sees completeness in the totalitarian state. The state can admit fault, but deny ever doing so later; guards can be brutal rulers, but be undermined by clever prisoners, prisoners rule each other, but their leaders can fall from power. The inmates on death row, with the clearest, nearest end, are often the ones who manage to hold onto power most tightly.

The prose moves between straightforward, no-nonsense accounting of fact and event, which makes for a quick, page-turning reading (helped along by the many brief chapters, a decision made by the translator, presumably to help the simple-minded American, so normally incapable of reading long chapters), and a neat, keen attention to all details. These details come in two basic types: those which exist in baseness, the layout of a cell, exactly how two prisoners handcuffed together make it through their days, the smells that one sleeps with when their bed is next to a toilet, or the barely-sustaining food they are fed; and in the poetic, kissing of a car window in a gesture toward a nearby butterfly, the prisoners糖心传媒� attention to a dove that visits them in the prison yard, Yiwu糖心传媒檚 learning to play the flute and listening to his teacher play from cells away. All of his details give the memoir its strongest life. It is easy to read historical fiction about Tiananmen Square and the protests, but when he tells of pickpockets and burglars posting notices announcing moratoriums on their work in support of the protests, you can live with the story instead of educating yourself about the events. The hardships of prison life can be easily documented, but moments like Yiwu sharing his inspiration to put toothpaste in his anus to cool off in a cruel heat, and the strive against other hardships has brightness. This isn糖心传媒檛 to say that the prose is continually grounded; Yiwu糖心传媒檚 poetics allow him to move past the plainness that can be associated with memoir, as when people become animals continually throughout the book (late in the book, I chose a random chapter and counted: five animal associations in little over four pages). He takes freedom in movement, like when a prisoner digging in garbage for food begins 糖心传媒渢hin as a monkey糖心传媒� before fully becoming a monkey, only to then begin to transform into a worm: 糖心传媒淭he hungry monkey jumped up and wiggled his way into the crowd like a worm.糖心传媒� There are times when the writing simply moves the story forward, and there are times when the aspirations of aesthetics or twists of sight don糖心传媒檛 reach their aims and fall dead, but never enough to turn one away.

Wenguans Huang糖心传媒檚 translation of For a Song and a Hundred Songs brings a new voice and story to a larger tradition. Numerous references to Solzehnitsyn, Orwell, and Kundera are made. They are part of a conversation in which Yiwu would be a silent participant were it not for his freedom in Germany and Huang糖心传媒檚 translation in English. Yiwu writes as a Chinese man under a totalitarian rule, and he makes this perspective clear, though quietly insisting on presenting a version of China that he has faith in and loves, as when he embarrasses an interrogator by claiming to have been on his way to meet Ma Bufang, who the interrogator eventually remembers as a Chinese warlord from the twentieth century; or when, at the end of the book, Yiwu learns to play the flute on a hollow bamboo stick from an illiterate monk. Yiwu糖心传媒檚 China is not only the government, or the development of capitalist system, but as a poet who 糖心传媒渄ream[s] of the dead,糖心传媒� it is the past and the future, but also the complex, heroic, and selfish individual he portrays himself to be.

If asked what I learned about China in reading Yiwu糖心传媒檚 memoir, my answer is simple: the expression isn糖心传媒檛 糖心传媒渢wo peas in a pod,糖心传媒� but rather 糖心传媒渢wo melons from the same vine.糖心传媒�

Straying for a moment from fiction and poetry reviews, we asked Patrick to contribute re this translated memoir from poet Liao Yiwu, who糖心传媒攍et’s just keep it simple糖心传媒攈as been through a hell of a lot and then some. Here’s the beginning of Patrick’s review.

With two previous versions confiscated by Chinese authorities before being published in Germany in 2011, and coming now into English with an introduction by 2009 Nobel Prize winner Herta M眉ller, Liao Yiwu糖心传媒檚 memoir of years spent in a human rights糖心传媒搗iolating Chinese prison comes with immediate political and social creditials; For a Song and a Hundred Songs is a book that you, the educated, enlightened reader 糖心传媒渟hould糖心传媒� read, to learn more about that culturally relevant Other. Yet, with the author糖心传媒檚 honesty, poetical eye and ear, and dedication to his own personal sense of China, it becomes something so much more interesting.

Opening with a brief account of his older sister糖心传媒檚 life and her tragic death in a bus accident, Liao Yiwu makes it clear that this work is a personal endeavor, calling her his 糖心传媒渇irst imaginary reader.糖心传媒� He begins before the student protests, outside of them, marking change in China by the era of automobiles instead of with any political changes. It soon becomes clear that Yiwu did not intend to be a political poet, in fact had no interest in the process or aims of such poetry. This attitude remains recognizable in him even today. On a number of occasions, he finds bitter, humored satisfaction in knowing that his most loyal readers are policemen reading his writing, looking for threatening political messages, trying to decipher hidden means to object to, an effort which in the end serves as the authorities imbuing the work with a threatening power that was not there till they found it.

Fpr the rest of the review, go here.

In honor of his 糖心传媒渆loquent and fearless battle against political repression,糖心传媒� the German Publishers and Booksellers Association has awarded its prestigious 2012 Peace Prize to Chinese dissident writer Liao Yiwu, who walked out on his native country and landed in Germany a year and a half ago to pursue what he calls 糖心传媒渇reedom to write and publish.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚n his prose and poetry, Liao Yiwu erects an evocative literary monument to those people living on the margins of Chinese society,糖心传媒� says the statement issued by the association糖心传媒檚 board of trustees. 糖心传媒淭he author, who has experienced first-hand the effects of prison, torture and repression, is an unwavering chronicler and observer who bears witness on behalf of the outcasts of modern China.糖心传媒�

A native of Sichuan, China, Liao Yiwu is a poet, musician, novelist and documentarian. He has authored Corpse Walker, God is Red, For a Song and A Hundred Songs and Bullets and Opium, all of which have been translated into multiple languages including English, German, French, Spanish, Swedish and Polish.

In the Corpse Walker, for which the Peace Prize was given, Liao has recorded his interviews with 27 Chinese living at the bottom rungs of society, from a grave robber and a leper, to a professional mourner paid to wail at funerals, and a human trafficker. Liao糖心传媒檚 research took 11 years, and his final product is a stunning series of portraits of a generation and class of individuals ignored in history books and unacknowledged in the accounts of the Communist China.

And congrats by proxy to Wen Huang, who both wrote this piece for Publishing Perspectives, and translated The Corpse Walker into English.

In and of itself, this is pretty cool—The Corpse Walker is a damn fine book, and he’s going to be appearing with Philip Gourevitch and Salman Rushdie—but the event has been made even more memorable since Liao Yiwu escaped from China to German this summer.

Here’s an email he sent out back in April:

Friends: I originally planned to leave for the United States on April 4 in order to make a publicity tour for my book God is Red which will be published in English translation by Harper Collins and for my book The Corpse Walker which was published by Random House. Unexpectedly, on March 28th, the police issued an order forbidding me to leave China. I had originally planned to travel to San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, New York, Washington and other cities and to give lectures, readings and musical performances at Harvard, Yale and other universities as well as participate in the New York Literary Festival where I was to make a speech and perform, and to have a dialogue with writers from around the world on the theme “Contemporary Writer and Bearing Witness to History”. Now all this has been canceled. My new book is also going to be published in Australia. My plan to travel from the United States to Australia has also been canceled. Ever since my return from Germany last year, I have been closely monitored. The police have “invited me to drink tea” many times. My writing has been repeatedly interrupted. I have once again been forbidden to travel abroad for national security reasons. Over the last ten or so years I have strived to get the right to travel abroad 16 times. I succeeded once and failed 15 times. Thank you all for your concern for me over the years. Liao Yiwu

So if you’re in the NY area, you should definitely check this out. It’s taking place tomorrow, September 13th at 8pm at the Tishman Auditorium at the New School (66 W. 12th St., between 5th and 6th Aves). Tickets are $20 or $15 for PEN Members and students. More information—including a link to buy tickets—is available

Wei Yang is a native of Dujiangyan in China糖心传媒檚 southwestern province of Sichuan. His head looks disproportionately large and he speaks with a thick accent as if he had a disproportionately large tongue. While in jail, he seldom talked and was anti-social. Beneath that loner糖心传媒檚 appearance, he possessed the agility of a squirrel, smart and alert. He moved swiftly and mysteriously.

Yang came from a poor family. Before his arrest in 1989, he was in his teens, attending a local vocational school. Like most self-absorbed teenagers, he seldom paid any attention to politics or current affairs. However, the massacre in Tiananmen Square on June 4 outraged him and turned him into an activist. Out of the blue, he fabricated an organization called 糖心传媒淭he China Democratic Alliance,糖心传媒� claiming that CDA was a longstanding pro-democracy organization overseas. Yang designed and printed a dozen CDA posters, urging people in Sichauan to stand up against the brutal regime, avenge the death of innocent students in Beijing and overthrow the central government. He boldly pasted the posters prominently at public venues. To add authenticity to his creation, he even made up a name at the bottom of the poster—糖心传媒渢he Sichuan branch of the China Democratic Alliance.糖心传媒� The sudden appearance of those counterrevolutionary posters with explicit anti-government messages shocked authorities in Sichuan. Local officials escalated the case into a top national emergency and requested assistance from both the provincial and central governments. Top experts gathered in Sichuan to share information and conduct joint investigations. More than one hundred policemen were mobilized and ordered to solve the case quickly before 糖心传媒渢his counterrevolutionary organization糖心传媒� could create more damage.

Yang was quick on his feet. Upon hearing that police were on his trail, he picked up two big albums of stamps and ran. He remained on the lam for half a year, wandering around in ten different southern metropolises. 糖心传媒淚 started collecting stamps as a child,糖心传媒� he said to me after he got caught and landed in my cell. 糖心传媒淓ach time I arrived at a city, I would hang out at the stamp market for a couple of hours. The money I got from stamp transaction would last me for a few days.糖心传媒�

Yang糖心传媒檚 case, which alarmed the central government and gained national notoriety, remained unresolved for months. When the real culprit was finally caught, the fatigued police were shocked, disappointed and depressed to see the 糖心传媒渕enacing糖心传媒� counter-revolutionary that they had pursued for half a year was merely an innocent looking teenager with a pair of big round eyes. What made them feel more insulted was the fact that Yang had no overseas connection, as he had claimed in the poster. He had no clue as to what a democratic alliance meant. When asked to cough up the names of the key members of the CDA in Sichuan, he admitted: 糖心传媒淚, myself, hold the titles of chairman, deputy chairman, publicity manager and secretary.糖心传媒�

The public security bureau and the court staff realized that they had been duped. Out of anger, they had him beaten up and thrown into a detention center. Several days later, indictment papers came. Then, they put him on trial. 糖心传媒淚 took lots of mental notes and was prepared to engage in a debate with the judge about the student movement in Tianamen,糖心传媒� Yang recollected. 糖心传媒淭hey didn糖心传媒檛 take me to a courtroom. Instead, I was led into a small office. The paper with the verdict had already been prepared and lay on a desk. Once I walked in, the judge picked up the paper, handed it to me and told me to move my ass out of the way. When I refused to leave, he grabbed a document folder with both hands and began to hit me hard on the head. Then he yelled: 糖心传媒楪et the hell out of here.糖心传媒櫶切拇綕

The judge charged him with counterrevolutionary demagoguery and sentenced him to three years in jail.

He was barely twenty years old. Initially, the authorities put him in charge of a warehouse for the prison factory. While nobody was looking, he slipped notes into the goat skin gloves that prisoner had produced for export. On the notes, he reminded people that the products were made in prison and urged customers to boycott the manufacturer. As a consequence, the merchandize, valued at about two million yuan (US$300,000), was returned from Hong Kong. The prison authorities launched an investigation and easily uncovered the hidden traitor. In retaliation, the prison guards hung him upside down from the ceiling for several days.

Subsequently, they assigned Yang to clean the factory workshops. He buddied up with a convicted murderer from Henan province, who was over six feet tall. Yang followed him everywhere. The two constantly got into quarrels. When that happened, Yang would tilt his head backward and stare at his companion with anger. He resembled more like a tiny mouse protesting against a big evil cat.

One time, all the political prisoners staged a hunger strike, but the guards enticed the common criminals to sabotage the efforts. The political prisoners found themselves surrounded by a group of hostile convicted criminals, which far outnumbered them. The big cat from Henan spotted Yang, the mouse, swooped on him with his big claws and then grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. Yang was swung high up in the air, his legs kicking like an astronaut inside a space shuttle. The big cat still wouldn糖心传媒檛 let him down. People from both camps burst out laughing. For many years, the scene haunted me and kept occurring in my dreams. I would see him being held up in the air by an invisible hand, struggling to get down. When I woke up, I would always find my own legs kicking.

In the spring of 1993, Yang served out his sentence and was allowed to go home. He became a laborer, pedaling a tricycle to transport beer for small restaurants along the Yangtse River. Once he had earned enough money to take care of his basic needs, he became restless. He traversed the country twice. He was a true friend. While in Guizhou, he encountered a former inmate and brought him back to Sichuan. Yang offered his place to that friend for a long time. One day, my phone rang. I picked it up and nobody was there. As I was puzzling over the anonymous phone call, my door bell rang. It was Yang—he had just called me on his cell phone outside.

Yang looked weary and his face was covered with dirt. It turned out that he had just gotten off a long ride on a slow train from the coastal city of Shenzhen. He had come directly from the train station to pay tribute. 糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檝e gotten gifts for you. These gifts have been smuggled in from Hong Kong. Two copies of Beijing Spring, a popular magazine published by dissident writers in the West and a book, _The Disasters of China糖心传媒檚 Leftists._糖心传媒� Then, Yang flashed a 100 Hong Kong dollar bill with Queen Elizabeth糖心传媒檚 head printed on it in front of my eyes: 糖心传媒淗ave you seen it before?糖心传媒�

My eyes sparkled at the sight of money. I examined and squeezed the one hundred dollar bill, feigning great interest. Then, I complimented him sarcastically: 糖心传媒淵ou are very much in tune with the mood of this country, money, money, money.糖心传媒� His face blushed, looking like a Red Delicious apple.

Later, I was told that Yang had decided to reform himself, shutting himself away and reading banned books on promoting democracy in China. He also developed a passion for Chinese and foreign detective stories. Yang made tremendous progress both in his possession of knowledge and gadgets 糖心传媒� he was well versed in Chinese politics and equipped himself with a beeper, a fax machine and cell phone.

Inspired by ideas from the many detective novels he had read, he launched an underground pro-democracy movement and learned how to contend with his enemies. After undertaking hundreds of scientific experiments, he acquired a new skill for writing secret notes with a special ink. The notes will remain invisible until you soak the paper in clear water for a few minutes (This special ink, mentioned in several revolutionary novels, was said to be invented by the subversive underground Chinese Communists who engaged in activities to sabotage the ruling Nationalist government in the 1940s).

Somehow, Yang managed to get connected with a dissident at a human rights organization in the US and communicated with him regularly. He enlisted my help in obtaining letters from imprisoned political dissidents and disseminated their information to the international community. We were both caught and locked behind bars for more than twenty days. The latest arrest made Yang more paranoid. 糖心传媒淭he police are omnipresent, like the bugs in your stomach. You feel their presence when you eat, and when you fart and shit.糖心传媒�

He further improved his spying techniques and always complained that other dissidents wouldn糖心传媒檛 be able to appreciate his efforts. One time, while visiting me at home, he bypassed me to present a pot of flowers to my father, who wasso touched that he carefully tended the flowers, giving it water and fertilizer. Little did I know that a secret note was hidden at the bottom of the pot. It was a letter to warn me of a possible police search. Two months later, after Yang mentioned the letter, I dashed over to the pot and dug up the note. It was mainly decomposed with a couple of worms squirming over it.

If the 糖心传媒淐hinese Democratic Alliance糖心传媒� was a mere figment of his imagination in 1989, he made it reality eight years later. When dissident Wang Youcai and his friends established the 糖心传媒淐hina Democratic Party糖心传媒� in the summer of 1998, Yang and his friends responded and formed the Sichuan branch. Police soon got wind of their political endeavors. Two leading members, Liu Xianbin and She Wanbao were arrested and immediately sentenced to ten years behind bars. Yang also found himself surrounded by plainclothes police who were stationed outside his apartment. He felt like a turtle in a vat. Calmly, Yang stepped out of his apartment, carrying a bucket of ashes downstairs and pretended to dump garbage. As police closed in on him, he tossed the bucket in the air. The dust blinded his captors and Yang ran away.

Like a nervous deer chased by a predator, Yang went up north, attempted to cross over to Russia through Jiamusi city, but that failed miserably. He had no alternative but returned to Sichuan, staying at different places and playing hide and seek with police. Not long afterward, he forged an identity card and joined a tour group for Thailand. Immediately upon arriving in Bangkok, he claimed to be horny and insisted on visiting the red light district. He got into a taxi and recklessly directed the driver to the American Embassy in Thailand. Sweaty and stinky, he stepped into the American territory and cried like a baby. He said he had finally tasted freedom.

In the winter of 1998, I received a fax from Yang, saying that he had been kicked out of the American Embassy and found himself on the streets. Since Thailand is well-known for its Buddhist charity, I later heard tales of Yang being picked up by a group of monks. He earned a living as a temple cleaner. Out of sympathy and friendship, I contacted friends in the West, seeking assistance for Yang. Political asylum turned out to be more complicated than I had expected.

Four years later, the dissident friend at the US-based human rights organization informed me that Yang糖心传媒檚 political asylum status had been confirmed and he would soon be transferred to a United Nations refugee camp. He would be given US$200 per month to cover his housing and food. 糖心传媒淭he money can barely feed his stomach,糖心传媒� says the friend. 糖心传媒淏ut it糖心传媒檚 better than nothing. I糖心传媒檓 trying to locate a country that will accept him, but it糖心传媒檚 very difficult. We have to jump all sorts of hurdles. He has to do a lot to prove himself.糖心传媒�

I felt so bad for Yang, but knowing his past ingenuity, I knew that he would somehow survive.

One day in July of 2004, a writer friend invited me out for tea and shared with me the news that Yang had arrived in Canada.

糖心传媒淗e has a new phone now and tried to call you many times and said he couldn糖心传媒檛 get through?糖心传媒� said my friend.

糖心传媒淩eally? I糖心传媒檓 sure he will call again,糖心传媒� I said.

(Special thanks to Wen Huang for sending us this translation of Liao Yiwu’s piece. Very appropriate for today, the twentieth anniversary of the Tiananmen Square massacre, or June Fourth Incident.)

As referenced in passing in the piece below, Liao Yiwu is a poet and novelist, who spent four years in jail after publishing “Massacre,” an epic poem condemning the killings in Tiananmen Square. His book, The Corpse Walker: Real Life Stories, China from the Bottom Up, came out from Pantheon last April to great acclaim.

On May 12, 2008, a major earthquake struck Beichuan in Sichuan province, about 80 kilometers from where I live. It糖心传媒檚 hard to believe that a full year has passed.

I don糖心传媒檛 know if the dead are resting in peace, but those who survived continue to be tormented by the memory of death. Recently, there have been a lot of stories circulating on the internet about an increase in suicide rates in the disaster area. A widely reported case involved a 33-year-old resident in Beichuan who had lost his wife and son in the earthquake. He used to be an outgoing optimist, but on New Year糖心传媒檚 Eve he was found in a pool of blood with his wrist slit. Luckily, his relatives discovered early and got him to the hospital in Mianyang city where the doctor was able to rescue him.

A Chinese psychologist categorized this incident as an example of 糖心传媒渋mpulsive suicide糖心传媒� triggered by Chinese holidays. The doctor said that every festival or anniversary has the potential to cause an insurmountable amount of stress for survivors. That reminds me of two lines from a well-known Chinese poem: 糖心传媒淎 stranger in a foreign land I cast, I miss my family on festival days.糖心传媒�

Each time a disaster hits China, we all become refugees and strangers in our own land. The famines of 1959 and 1962 left thirty million dead. The Cultural Revolution caused the deaths of between two and seven million people. The devastating earthquake in Tangshan claimed the lives of 240,000 . . . We survivors struggle on, living meaningless lives like pigs and dogs. In the Mao era, the Party used to call on people to 糖心传媒渨ipe clean the blood stains on your face, bury the bodies of your comrades and move on . . .糖心传媒� According to Western standards of mental health, almost every Chinese person is suffering from some mental illness糖心传媒攕uch as post-traumatic stress disorder. We are all the descendants or contemporaries of various man-made and natural catastrophes.

I was caught in the middle of the earthquake one month after my book Corpse Walker was released in the United States. I rushed out of my house and survived. Suddenly, I found myself the center of attention from friends and the media. I talked non-stop about my experience and expressed my frustration and inability to help. Then, some friends overseas reminded me of my duty as a writer: 糖心传媒淵ou need to go to the epicenter and record real history. The misfortune of a country is the fortune of historians. This is an opportunity and mission from heaven.糖心传媒� They were right. I felt like transforming myself from a lazy dog into a mechanical one. I dragged my girlfriend along and sniffed around the debris for months, interviewing survivors and listening to their stories. I kept what I had seen and heard in a journal every day. As summer turned into winter, I finally had the opportunity to compile my journal into a book called The Big Earthquake.

In January, news came from Australia that the Chinese version of The Big Earthquake won me an award from the Melbourne-based Qi糖心传媒檚 Cultural Foundation. I immediately looked up the organization and realized that the award was set up in memory of a former Chinese political prisoner, Qi Zunzhou. Coincidentally, Mr. Qi was my alumni at the No. 2 Sichuan Provincial Prison, where I spent two years for writing and distributing my poem 糖心传媒淢assacre糖心传媒� after the government糖心传媒檚 crackdown on the student pro-democracy movement in 1989.

The prize came as a shock. It was encouragement from one political prisoner to another. I was touched and enticed, like a prisoner hearing the sound of keys outside his dark cell. I saw a ray of hope. Thus, based on the instructions from the award administrators, I carefully planned my trip.

As I began to marvel at the power of an invisible hand leading and guiding me in life, my phone rang. It was the local police calling to set up a meeting.

It was a sunny afternoon, right after Chinese New Year糖心传媒檚. Mr. Zeng, the local police chief showed up, looking weary and distracted. He officially conveyed to me the government decision to reject my application for a passport. When I asked for more explanation, he said: 糖心传媒淵ou know what I mean.糖心传媒�

I nodded in response: 糖心传媒淥f course. It糖心传媒檚 going to be an eventful year糖心传媒攐ne year after the earthquake, the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen student movement, the 10th anniversary of government糖心传媒檚 crackdown on Falun Gong, and the 60th anniversary of the founding of the People糖心传媒檚 Republic of China. Those milestones pose many potential headaches for the government. I know . . . but what does this have to do with my traveling abroad?糖心传媒�

Despite Mr. Zeng糖心传媒檚 warning, I refused to give up. As public security officials in my hometown were busy handling the aftermath of the earthquake, I quickly changed my residential registration and obtained a new one at a small town nearby. With that new registration card, I was able to obtain a passport, which the public security bureau in Chengdu had denied me nine times.

For the next month, I lived in a state of constant worry. First, I submitted my visa application at the Australian consulate and went there for an interview. Seeing the hesitation on the consul糖心传媒檚 face, I declared loudly: 糖心传媒淚 won糖心传媒檛 use this award opportunity to escape to your country and claim what many of my pathetic fellow countrymen have done糖心传媒攑olitical asylum. I糖心传媒檓 not a swindler. I糖心传媒檓 a writer who thrives on the tales of people living at the bottom rung of society. I糖心传媒檓 rooted here despite the fact I hate it. The air in Australia is fresher but I can糖心传媒檛 live on fresh air alone.糖心传媒�

The tone of my voice carried such confidence. Deep down, I experienced gnawing pain. It糖心传媒檚 been a hard life as a writer. During the past two decades, I have interviewed more than 300 different people at the bottom of society and chronicled their lives caught in the tumultuous political campaigns and disasters. So far, none of my books has been allowed to see the light of the day in China. It糖心传媒檚 only thanks to the internet that I糖心传媒檓 able to find space for my writings.

After much 糖心传媒渂egging,糖心传媒� I was granted a visa. I then consulted with a group of nerdy intellectual friends, whose detailed analyses led to one conclusion: Brother, don糖心传媒檛 act recklessly. We are living in a big country ruled by a powerful totalitarian government. Don糖心传媒檛 even wander close to the immigration checkpoints at major airports. You could get yourself into trouble.

I emphasized the fact that I had legal documents糖心传媒攁 passport and visa. My response triggered loud laughter: 糖心传媒淥ld Liao, you are over 50 years old, yet you still haven糖心传媒檛 grown up. Your longing for freedom have blindsided you to the point that you don糖心传媒檛 even see the reality.糖心传媒� Even my lawyer reminded me to cling to my passport if the guard stops me: 糖心传媒淒on糖心传媒檛 let them snatch it away.糖心传媒�

I was determined and came up with an elaborate plan. Together, my companion and I packed up a big package and boarded the train from Chengdu to Nanning, Guangxi province. I rushed over to the China-Vietnam border. I wiped out any traces of my escape by turning off my cell phone and closing my email accounts. The only thing I didn糖心传媒檛 do was to have plastic surgery. On my way there, a smirk constantly appeared on my face糖心传媒擨 would finally outsmart the Party糖心传媒攖here is no way that they would know that I try to sneak out to Australia through Vietnam.

Looking back, it shouldn糖心传媒檛 surprise me that I got caught at the immigration check point. As my girlfriend and I joined the crowd and moved with the line, an officer spotted me and asked me to step out. I put down my travel bag, which stood as tall as me, and handed over my passport.

糖心传媒淚s this your first time to travel abroad? Where is your domestic ID card?糖心传媒� he asked sternly.

I pulled it out of my wallet and presented it to him.

The officer took the information and with the clicking of his keyboard, he entered it into the computer. He then raised his head and looked at me solemnly: 糖心传媒淭here糖心传媒檚 a problem. Could you wait inside this office for a few minutes?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淒o you want to check my luggage?糖心传媒� I asked with feigned innocence.

糖心传媒淵es,糖心传媒� he said. Then, four policemen followed me into an office nearby. They didn糖心传媒檛 search me at all. They simply detained me for more than two hours while they checked with higher authorities. Finally, they produced a written report for me: Liao Yiwu, based on Article 8 of the Chinese Immigration Regulation, you have been barred from leaving the country.

I didn糖心传媒檛 argue with them. Cold sweat streamed down my face.

I still wouldn糖心传媒檛 give up so easily. After leaving the immigration office, I walked over to a border village. I scouted the border line糖心传媒攁 huge muddy pool with several wooden stakes lined up in the middle. It would be equally challenging to cross over from there.

I returned to the bus station and got on a bus to Yunnan province. About twelve hours later, I arrived at Mengzi. Another five or six hours later, I found myself at Hekou County. I could see Vietnam from across the river. As I passed the immigration office, I encountered the same treatment. The power of the computer networks! Like a Chinese saying goes: The net of heaven stretches far and wide, coarse mesh letting nothing through.

I spent two weeks traversing back and forth for thousands of miles. My plan failed miserably. I returned to my hometown, exhausted. Yet, it was a beautiful dream of freedom. When I wake up, I糖心传媒檓 still here.

While writing the book about the earthquake, my mind had reached a point of saturation. For quite some time, I was reluctant to talk about the book and revisit the purgatory scenes of death and pain. However, when news of the award came, I thought I could use the opportunity to see the ocean on the other side of the hemisphere and breathe some fresh air. Maybe the temporary freedom would help ease my jangled nerves. Now, I have to stay糖心传媒攖he dream is certainly beyond my reach.

Each time I ran into some obstacles in life, I would blame it on fate. Considering the fact that I survived the devastating earthquake while so many people have died, I don糖心传媒檛 have a single reason to complain. Therefore, I want to dedicate this award, as tribute to the earthquake victims, as a ceremony to mourn for the masses that have been neglected, tortured and slaughtered, as a chronicle that records the battles between the masses and the corrupted officials and between memory and forgetfulness.

Many years later, this award will make people remember my book, remembering a shameful chapter in contemporary Chinese history.

May 12, 2009, Chengdu, Sichuan province