Bob Blundell, a former columnist at Catholic Stand has written a book, “Crossroads – A Journey from Communist China to Christ”. Bob brings one of the stories from the reign of Mao into the light. It is not a detached account; “John Ma” has been Bob’s beloved friend and brother in Christ for more than seven years. This article is the second of a three-part series of excerpts introducing readers to Bob’s new book. To Read Part I.
Most of the western world thinks of ‘thought reform’ in a military setting. There are hundreds of examples of confessions and collaboration of American soldiers captured during the Korean war. The Chinese communist process for thought reform is often referred to as ‘ideological remolding’. It is widely considered to be one of the most effective processes for changing the beliefs of its victims. It contains two elements. First, a confession and acknowledgement of past sins, generally viewed as words or actions not aligned with communist ideals. And second, a reeducation process.
During Mao’s regime, millions of citizens were imprisoned and subjected to ‘thought reform’. In the early years after the communist party took over, there were hundreds of western Christian missionaries in Shanghai that were captured and held for months for reeducation. When they were released, many were reportedly confused and conflicted over their religious beliefs and ultimately became atheists.
University professors were required to study material on Marxism and Leninism after the communist party took over in 1949. Many of them were ultimately taken by the state and held captive and subjected to thought reform. Upon leaving captivity, thousands renounced their past and some were required to ‘rewrite’ history books to be more aligned with the tenets of the communist party.
Mao once wrote, ‘Intellectuals who want to integrate themselves with the masses must go through a process in which they and the masses come to know each other.’
These words did little to hide his disdain toward the educated and intellectuals of his country. He placed great emphasis on mind control of his citizens and intellectuals were not to just be merely ‘neutralized’. They needed to have the correct political conscience. Communism was not only a struggle for social and economic reform, but a relentless battle for the hearts and minds of the Chinese people. Communist doctrine was not satisfied with mere compliance from the citizens of his country. They must ‘believe’ in their hearts and souls. One of Mao’s strategies often required lowering intellectuals to points where they could understand the needs and the passions of the common workers. Engineers became farmers and teachers became peasants. It was a means to an end designed to equilibrate all layers of the country into one unified communist worker.
In an early Mao doctrine titled Decision on Absorption of Intellectuals, it stated, ‘Intellectuals and semi-intellectuals who are useful in various degrees should be given appropriate work and trained adequately to correct their weaknesses in order to remold themselves.’ My mother and father became victims of this process of demoralization.
When my father and mother returned to our small bungalow on the university campus after being gone for almost two years, my sister and I finally had some relief from the constant fear. But they were both different in an intangible way. My father was always fearful of the government and how things we did and said would be perceived. It was a paranoia that trickled down to my sister and me. My mother rarely smiled, speaking only when absolutely needed to communicate to others. They refused to discuss what they had endured while they were held captive. We were left to our imaginations.
For a few short months we lived together as a family in this hybrid, paranoid existence. Then one day, my father received word that we must leave our home. We were to be transported across the country to live in a work camp as a means of further cleansing and purification of my parents’ ideologies.
I had never ridden on a train before and at first, I considered the trip to be an adventure. Officials directed my family into the passenger cars, and we sat in small, confined booths. There were many other families who like us, had been ushered into the cars for transport. Our identifications were carefully checked when we boarded and on numerous occasions during the trip. I remember asking my mother where the train was taking us, but she told me to be silent. I knew at that moment neither of them knew what lay ahead. There were no soldiers, militia, or police that rode in the train with us. There was no need for their presence. My parents and all the others destined for the work camp, gladly complied with the expectations of the party and chairman Mao. They were told they were needed there, so they went voluntarily. Like obedient sheep led to a slaughterhouse.
When we arrived at our destination, I remember my first glimpse of the barracks, long black buildings, designed similar to those you may have seen or heard of in Auschwitz and other death camps in World War 2. Upon arrival at the camp, families were split apart. The men and older boys were housed in one set of barracks, and the women, girls, and small children went into a separate barracks. I went with my mother and sister. For the first year we lived and slept in a long series of tiered bunk beds in community rooms along with hundreds of other women and children. For most of that year we never saw my father. We were told he was alive and performing the work given to him by the party. My mother worried greatly about what may have been done with him.
What I remember most about the facility was that it was always tremendously crowded, dirty, and cold. Later, as more barracks were constructed, each family was moved into individual rooms and my father was allowed to live with us again. These were 10×10 foot rooms where my family slept and lived for the next two years. The only toilet and bath facility was in a separate shared building. We had to walk through the cold during the winter to relieve ourselves and I remember wondering if I would ever live a normal life again.
Each 10×10 room held one family regardless of the size, and there were no ceilings. There was a space between the roof and the walls, so what was spoken could be overheard by the family on the other side of the wall. My parents were always cautious about the topics they spoke of. It was common for people living in the barracks to pass on counter revolutionary words that may have been overheard from the neighbors in the adjoining rooms. This information was often conveyed to the people that ran the camp. Information could often be redeemed for additional privileges such as a few ounces of pork or an additional blanket for warmth.
Life at the camp was very militaristic. We woke up at set times and hurried off to work or to school. Each element of our day was initiated by harsh commands broadcast over a massive loudspeaker system that could be heard throughout the camp. Early in the morning a stern female voice would pierce the silence and we were commanded to dress and leave the barracks. Another announcement told us when to eat, when to work, and when to go to bed. It was an existence, performed by rote. There were no guards or barbed wire fences surrounding the facility as you would imagine in a forced labor camp. All the inhabitants remained there because that was what the communist party wanted them to do.
We ate in a massive canteen each day at specific times dictated by the voice over the speaker. There was rarely any meat, only rice and occasionally vegetables. My father’s job was to prepare meals for the thousands that lived at the camp. He had no experience in this area, but it was what he was given to do, and he never complained. It was another example of an intellectual being pressed down to better understand the needs and desires of the masses.
My mother taught kindergarten to the children in the camp. My sister and I (I was seven by then) attended classes during the day, and in the afternoon all the children, regardless of age, were required to work. Most days we were taken out into the fields to pick wheat, cotton, or other elements after the giant combines had gone over the crops. We picked up small pieces of wheat and cotton remaining on the ground and placed them into small bags. The bags were collected each day then we were hurried off for our evening meal of rice. I was naive to the fact much of the country was starving. I missed not having pork or beef, but the rice we were fed kept me sated and I felt blessed just to have my parents with me.
I remember the bitter cold during the winters when my sister and I were working out in the fields. There was very little clothing for us to wear as we had only been allowed to pack small bags to bring from Beijing. We had a tiny stove in our room and our family would huddle next to the fire during the evenings until it was time to go to sleep in our bunks.
My depression became more obvious to me by the time I was seven and I was in my second year in the camp. I had no friends. I only had the fear that followed me every step of my day. It was like a beast, always there, always lurking. My parents began to see evidence of my depression. I rarely spoke and was prone to uncontrollable fits of weeping. But they didn’t know how to respond to my illness. Depression and its treatment were not known in China in those days. In fact, the study of Psychology at the university level had been discontinued for thirty years once the communist party took over.
The government’s philosophy for those who struggled with mental illness was simple and ruthless. They were either deemed insane, and locked up in an asylum. Or their mental illness was a failure in the alignment of their ideologies. The remedy for the latter was to expose the victim to further brainwashing so that their minds could be purified.
I believe my parents were in denial and couldn’t acknowledge by mental illness. This was in part due to the Chinese culture, and because my older sister did not suffer from the same afflictions, though she was exposed to the same traumas. My father often asked me, “What is wrong with you? Your sister is normal. What are we to do with you?”
I had no answer to that question.
I reflect on those years living alone in Beijing and later in the work camp and I realize I was robbed of a childhood. At the age of four I was forced to live alone in a society turned inside out. I didn’t have the security that most children have with their parents there to protect them. There were no fond childhood experiences I could look back upon. The only moment of joy I remember was when a classmate gave me half of a small piece of candy. Sugar didn’t exist in the camp, and I will always remember the explosion of sweetness in my mouth as I chewed the tiny piece of candy. It was the one moment of happiness that still remains with me.
It wasn’t until almost thirty years later, when a therapist diagnosed me with PTSD, that I began to understand how my experiences in China shaped and formed me into who I am. Those experiences scarred me and tainted how I view the world. But God is slowly working to heal the scars so that my past does not define who I may become.
At the beginning of our fourth year in the camp, we were told to board a crowded train to return to our government-owned apartment in Beijing. My parents were deemed to have been properly acclimated to the needs of the common workers, and their ideologies were now consistent with those of the communist party.
The train ride took two days as we slowly made our way across the country. I remember gazing quietly out the windows of the crowded compartment of the train, watching the landscape flow past me. My parents were sitting beside me and there was tension and uncertainty in their eyes. I realized at that point their reticence was due to the fear of what may be waiting for them at the end of our journey.
The closer we got to Beijing, the more I could see the trepidation in my father’s eyes. I knew that in that moment, I would someday escape the darkness of this country. I would leave China, or I would die.
Bob Blundell’s book is available on Amazon.
