my worn out shoes on foot, I set out – stumbling – to start my day. Apparently, not soon enough: I
walked out to the crops where I was set to do my day’s work and noticed every boy looking at me
– some with a sorrowful expression, some pure horror. I walked shakily towards the supervisor,
noticing instantly, his eyes, which were filled with a vivid expression of hatred and ferocity.
He walked over to me, a murderous glint evident in his cold, unforgiving eyes. Ever since
Chairman Mao came to power, punishment has been as “normal” as eating! The horrible penalties
devised by the man himself; inflicting pain and humiliation upon the offender. Occasionally,
the treatment is harsh, but necessary. A way of “keeping everyone in line” but the majority of
the punishments are disgusting, gut-wrenchingly horrific sessions with no justification behind
them. The accused, often innocent, is tormented, humiliated, sometimes even killed! Just for the
pleasure of the dictator.
As I reached him, his rough, vicious hands wrapped themselves around my wrists and
wrenched me toward the dreaded “whipping post”. The stories came flooding to the front of my
mind. They spread around the camps like wildfire, catching each unsuspecting child and driving
them to the brink of insanity with the terror and apprehension of a beating. The supervisor
roughly tugged my calloused hands into place and locking them into the chains, he raised the
leather belt high above his head – all the men looking terribly small in the face of punishment;
even one not inflicted on them. As the belt thrashed down along my bare, fleshy skin, agony tore
its way through my body, the blazing mark screaming with intensity. The belt kept coming – over
and over again. I tried to be a man, take it like a man and leave, strong, like a man, but the lashes
were too painful to bear. I fell apart after the tenth blow. Tears streaming down my tormented
face - a yelp escaping my damaged body, with each brutal strike.
They dragged me off to my room, the marks already bloody and gruesome, and left me there;
like battered and damaged goods. I dragged out my dictionary with shaky hands and read a few
words “a-go-ny” “p-ai-n” “wor-th-less”. I decided to try them out, speaking to myself quietly – “no
matter the pain and agony they put me through, I am not worthless, I’m still worthwhile”. I cried
myself to sleep that night, pain, exhaustion and emotion taking me over before darkness settled
and wreathed me in its comfort and gentleness.
Not long after, my sleep was disturbed by a great series of nightmare-like images: a dragon
choking me, an eagle swooping down in the middle of the Gobi Desert and taking me away,
a whipping post, a belt, my mother in Tiananmen Square being whipped and dragged away
unconscious. I woke up screaming and sweating. Those images haunted me. Day after day. Night
after night. Terrorising my sleep.
I was in that camp for 6 years. For 6 years I was beaten. For 6 years I was starved. For 6
years I was treated like I was worthless. For 6 years, I did not see my family. For 6 years, I did not
return home.
The day I returned was one I will never forget – clear as the day I was taken. I remember
looking through the small window and seeing my father and mother sitting in the kitchen – the
very same kitchen from which I was taken. Their faces bore a mask of false happiness; but one
could see it hid depression, anxiety and sorrow. I remember walking to the door, and as I drew
my fist back to rap on the door, the past 6 years flashed before my eyes. I recalled the beatings,
the agony of each individual stroke. I remembered the daily storms, just one of the Gobi Desert’s
worst assets. I remembered the days I spent, teaching myself word after word of English. I
became fluent in the days I was there. In those 6 years, I taught myself English; I taught myself
