God Is Red - Liao Yiwu [49]
Liao: In secular terms, the word “above” means the government, but I assume that your father meant “God.”
Wang: Exactly. Christians knew what he meant right away. Then he said, “You should engage in physical labor, making sure to have food to eat and clothes to wear. You should pay attention to personal hygiene and stay healthy. Don’t get sick.”
Our father’s words warmed our hearts. He used to tell us that those were the words of his own father and the foreign missionaries. I stepped up to him and sobbed: “Dad, we will listen to what ‘the above’ tells us, but we have many children at home who need you. If you can’t be reformed and come back home, what will the children do?” What I really meant was that he was a reverend and a leader of the church. His flock wanted its shepherd.
Then, my mother brought out six eggs and presented them to Father. My father reached out his bleeding hands, touched Mother on her head, her chest, and her shoulders, and then he separated the eggs, keeping three and giving back three.
Liao: The Trinity?
Wang: We understood the symbolism. At that point, a prison officer came in and announced, “Wang Zhiming has been sentenced to death. The execution will be carried out tomorrow after a public trial. The criminal’s body shall be handled by the government. Family members don’t need to get involved.”
We begged the guard to explain why we could not take his body. He said that in response to the overwhelming requests from the revolutionary masses, the government had decided to blow up his body with explosives. We were shocked. We kept begging. We promised not to erect a tombstone or put up any prominent signs that could bring people to pay tribute. The guard refused. “Throughout history, you Miao people are well known for being superstitious. Who knows what will happen if we allow your family to give him a proper burial!”
After Father was taken away, we refused to leave, demanding the right to collect his body. The prison officer became mad and summoned the local militia to drive us out. We did not resist them. It was already dark when we got home, and several dozen villagers were waiting for us there. They cried after hearing that my father’s body would be blown up into pieces. We stayed home and prayed for God’s help.
Early the next morning, a village official came and told us to borrow a horse-drawn cart. He said we could go to Father’s public trial, which would be attended by ten thousand people. Afterward, we could, in his words, “drag home the body of the counterrevolutionary.”
God must have heard our prayers, we said to ourselves. On the road, we quietly sang hymns together. The meeting site was packed with people shouting slogans and waving red flags. Two other criminals were also there on trial, but they wouldn’t get the death penalty. They were dragged there to receive “education.”
As soon as we arrived, several armed soldiers walked over and aimed their guns at us: “Don’t move. Squat down with your hands clutching your heads.” So we did, our backs toward the stage, but during the meeting, when the soldiers were distracted, we would quickly turn around to take a quick glance between people’s heads at what was going on with our father. There were two rows of seats on the stage. All the county leaders were sitting there. My father, with his hands and legs tied with ropes, stood in the middle of the stage, the two other criminals on either side. There was blood at the corner of his mouth. We learned later that a guard had used his bayonet to slash his tongue so he wouldn’t be able to shout or preach. Some former church members and leaders went up on the stage and denounced my father’s crimes. After that was over, a leader grabbed the microphone and announced, “Wang Zhiming has been sentenced to death; the execution will be carried out immediately.” Soldiers raised Father into the air so everyone could see him. The crowd roared. They raised their fists high and shouted, but all I could hear were the words “Down with . . . ,” “Smash . . . ,” and “Long