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 third of a three-part series of excerpts introducing readers to Bob’s new book. To Read Part I.
I was eight when my family was released from the camp and allowed to return to Beijing. Even then, I knew I was not destined to follow the communist mould. I often questioned my reason for existing, wondering if there was something more to life. How did I fit into the grander order of things? What was my purpose?
But there was no room in my country for such questions. In China, they programmed us to obey the government. Our purpose was what Chairman Mao decided it should be. Thoughts that differed from the status quo were suppressed and viewed as counterrevolutionary. My ideas were not aligned with Chinese culture or the communist party.
Despite my parents’ attempt to push me toward conformity and shape me into an obedient communist, my inquisitive nature further evolved. I became convinced that there had to be more in this universe. Someplace where pain and darkness did not dominate every moment. These thoughts became the seeds of a plan to explore and escape the only world I knew. Over time, I nurtured the seeds, and they grew from a sapling and then into a tree. The more I learned about communism and its teachings, the more compelled I became to escape and find peace. Soon, leaving China became my only reason for existing. My reason for hope.
As strong as my desire to find a better place in my life, I could tell no one about my aspirations to leave China. If I were to confide in my parents, they would have responded harshly. Their allegiance to Mao’s government could only be categorized as blind, selfless loyalty. They would have taken away what little freedom I had and perhaps even reported me to the party. My sister, who had been my only protector when my parents were taken, seemed satisfied with the world. I was forced to keep all ideas of leaving secret. Holding these tumultuous thoughts of rebellion inside, haunted me, yet I couldn’t make them go away.
When I was in my pre-teens, we were required to stand in the classroom each day and profess our allegiance to Chairman Mao and the communist party. I repeated these mantras in constant fear my true feelings would surface and there would be consequences. I prayed that the teachers and other students would not somehow sense my betrayal, and they would imprison me like my parents had been. I often glanced nervously around the room as my classmates recited their loyalties to the Chinese government. I knew as I watched them, I was an anomaly. All I felt was fear and anger. As time went by, those emotions burned brighter, stoked by the world I lived in.
After the years at the camp, my parents returned to the university system in Beijing, but they were no longer teachers and scholars. The party removed their influence by placing them in positions where they could not contaminate the minds of young revolutionaries. After Mao took over, they turned the system of education upside down. Not only were intellectuals such as professors and teachers imprisoned and subjected to ‘thought reform’, but the administration and leadership of the university systems were transformed.
Like universities in the West, before 1949 educators and administrators ran colleges. They had the autonomy to teach and select curriculums consistent with their spheres of expertise. However, that hierarchy changed when the communist party took over the country. University deans and administrators were replaced with blue-collar workers and military officials who were responsible for defining what should be taught. All academic subjects were to be aligned with communist ideals. My parents’ positions as tenured, respected professors evolved into symbolic roles. Their positions in directly influencing the minds of young adults were diminished. They were merely pawns and figureheads with titles.
Both had spent their adult lives helping to develop the minds of students and this demoralized my parents, especially my mother, who had such passion for teaching. But they never complained. My father defended the government and joined the communist party. This same man was imprisoned for five years, and subjected to thought reform, then forced to work as a cook in the camp. This speaks to the power and effectiveness of the brainwashing process conducted by the communist party. I shudder to think what my father would have done to me if he knew that I secretly harbored such ill will toward our country.
There was one warm summer afternoon in 1976 that I will always remember. It was a moment of fear and darkness, while at the same time a crossroads and open door for me to ultimately step through to a better place. I was 12 and sitting in my classroom in Beijing. The windows were opened to allow the September breeze into the room, and from where I sat, I could smell the roses planted along the side of the building. At about 4 PM, someone came into the classroom and asked the teacher to step out into the hallway.
As children often do, the surrounding students began to chatter until the door opened again and our teacher stepped to the front of the class. Her eyes were red as if she had been crying, and after composing herself, she spoke in a cracked, tearful voice.
“A great leader has died,” she muttered. There were gasps among the children in the room. She wiped tears from her eyes. “Chairman Mao died today,” then she fell to her knees and began to weep bitterly.
Immediately, the room was filled with the sound of children crying all around me. Some girls had fallen to their knees and hugged their desks as tears of grief flowed. I watched silently, feeling nothing. There was no emotion other than relief and inner joy that perhaps China would become whole again. Suddenly, I realized I was the only one in the classroom, not in tears. I glanced around me, afraid that a teacher or another student would notice my lack of grief.
As I began to feel the panic take over, the only thing I could think to do was pinch the inside of my arm with my fingernails. I pinched a roll of my skin as hard as I could until tears of pain began to flow. Then I laid my head on the desk and closed my eyes as tiny rivulets of my blood trickled to the floor.
Our school was in the heart of Beijing. With the windows open, I could hear many pedestrians outside weeping in grief at Mao’s passing. The entire country mourned. All but me, a 12-year-old child.
In the days leading up to Mao’s funeral, all businesses and schools were closed in memory of the great leader. It was a dark time for the nation, reminiscent of the grief the United States felt in 1963 when President Kennedy was assassinated. I will always remember the morning of the great leader’s funeral, which was to be broadcast on television. I had taken a book outside and sat on the steps to our house reading. Suddenly, my father emerged from our home and grabbed me by my shoulders. He ripped the book from my grasp and pushed me to the ground, screaming.
“You stupid boy! If anyone were to see you reading while we should be grieving the loss of the great leader, we could all be imprisoned!”
I will never forget the look of pure terror in my father’s eyes. It wasn’t until decades later that I came to better understand my father’s fear. That was when he was diagnosed with PTSD, the same malady that plagued me most of my life.
Bob Blundell’s book is available on Amazon.
