'Our souls are dead': how I survived a Chinese 're-education' camp for Uighurs | Uighurs | The Guardian

After living in France for 10 years, I returned to China to sign some documents and was put in prison. For the next two years, I was systematically humanized, humiliated and brainwashed

The last modification time is 11.42 EST on January 15, 2021

He said: "You must go back to Karamay City and sign the documents regarding your upcoming retirement, Mrs. Heidi Waji." Karamay City is a city in a western province of China.

I have worked in an oil company for more than 20 years.

I said: "In that case, I want to grant a power of attorney." "A friend of mine in Karamay takes care of my administrative affairs. Why should I come back to do some paperwork? Why is it such a small thing along the way? Why now? "

This person has no answer to me. He simply said that after considering the possibility of letting my friend act on my behalf, he would call me back within two days.

My husband Kerim left Xinjiang in 2002 to find a job. He first tried in Kazakhstan, but was disillusioned a year later. Then in Norway. Then there was France, where he applied for asylum. After he settles there, our two girls and I will join him.

Kerim always knew that he would leave Xinjiang. This idea took root even before we were hired by oil companies. We met with students in Urumqi, the largest city in Xinjiang, and as recent graduates, they have already started looking for jobs. That was in 1988. In job advertisements in newspapers, there is often a small word: no

. This never left him. When I tried to ignore the evidence of discrimination, with the appearance of Kerim, we can see it everywhere, which has become a problem.

After graduation, we were hired as engineers of Karamay Petroleum Company. We are lucky. But then there was a red envelope incident. During the Lunar New Year, when the boss gives out annual bonuses, the red envelopes given to Uyghur workers are less than the red envelopes given to our colleagues who belong to the main ethnic Han Chinese. Soon after, all Uyghurs were transferred from the central office and moved to the outskirts of the city. A small group of people opposed, but I dare not. A few months later, when a senior position appeared, Kerim applied. He has appropriate qualifications and qualifications. There is no reason why he should not hold this position. However, the position was transferred to a Han worker who did not even have an engineering degree. One night in 2000, Kerim went home and announced that he had resigned. "I'm fed up," he said.

Everything my husband is going through is all too familiar. Since 1955, when the Communist Party of China annexed Xinjiang as an "autonomous region," Uyghurs have been regarded as the thorns of the Middle East kingdom. Xinjiang is a strategic corridor, so valuable to the ruling Communist Party of China that it risks losing control of it. The party has invested too much money on the "New Silk Road". The "Silk Road" is an infrastructure project designed to connect China and Europe through Central Asia. Our region is one of the important axis. Xinjiang is crucial to President Xi Jinping’s grand plan, that is, a peaceful Xinjiang, open to business, eliminating its separatist tendencies and ethnic tensions. In short, there are no Uyghurs in Xinjiang.

My daughters and I fled to France in May 2006 and joined my husband, just before Xinjiang entered an unprecedented period of repression. My daughters (13 and 8 years old at the time) were granted refugee status just like their father. When seeking asylum, my husband knew everything about the past. In fact, obtaining a French passport deprived him of his Chinese nationality. For me, the prospect of handing over my passport is worrying: I will never be able to return to Xinjiang. How can I say goodbye to my root cause, my abandoned relatives (parents, siblings, children)? I imagined my mother dying alone in her village in the mountains in the north for many years. Giving up my Chinese nationality also meant giving up her. I can't do it myself. Therefore, I applied for a residence permit that can be renewed every 10 years.

After receiving the call, as I looked around the quiet living room of our apartment in Boulogne, my head buzzed. Why did that person want me to go back to Karamay? Is this a deception so that the police can interrogate me? Nothing like this happened to any other Uighurs I knew in France.

The man called back two days later. "Ms. Waji in Haiti cannot grant a power of attorney. You must come to Karamay yourself." I gave in. After all, this is just a matter of a few files.

"Fine. I will get there as soon as possible." I said.

When I hung up, my spine trembled. I am afraid to return to Xinjiang. Kerim has tried his best to make me feel at ease for two days, but I feel bad about it. At this time of year, Karamay City is in a brutal winter. An icy wind blew in the streets between shops, houses and apartment buildings. Several characters tied together brave these elements and embrace the wall, but in general, no one can see. But what I am most worried about is that measures to regulate Xinjiang are getting stricter. Anyone who stepped out of the house could be arrested for no reason.

This is nothing new, but since the Urumqi riots in 2009, authoritarianism has become more pronounced. Violent clashes broke out between the Uyghur and Han ethnic groups in the city, killing 197 people. This event marked a turning point in the recent history of the region. Later, the Chinese Communist Party blamed these terrorist acts on the entire ethnic group and claimed that Uyghur families were hotbeds for radicals, thus defending its suppression policy.

And separatism.

In the summer of 2016, in the long struggle between our ethnicity and the Communist Party, an important new player entered the market. Chen Quanguo, who is well-known for implementing strict surveillance measures in Tibet, was appointed as the head of Xinjiang Province. With his arrival, the repression of Uyghurs escalated sharply. Thousands of people were sent to "schools" built almost overnight on the edge of desert settlements. These are called the "education transformation" camp. The detainees are sent there for brainwashing, which is worse.

I don't want to go back, but again, I think Kerim is right: I have no reason to worry. This trip only takes a few weeks. "They will definitely attract your inquiries, but don't panic. That's perfectly normal," he assured me.

The next stage will be carried out at the Kunlun Police Station, a 10-minute drive from the company headquarters. On the way, I prepared answers to questions that might be asked. I tried to make myself strong. After leaving my belongings at the front desk, I was taken to a cramped and lifeless room: the interrogation room. I have never been to one. A table separates the two police chairs from mine. The quiet buzzing of the heater, poorly cleaned whiteboards and pale lights: these all make up the scene. We discussed my reasons for leaving France, working in a bakery and a cafeteria in the business district of La Défense in Paris.

Then one of the police officers pushed a photo under my nose. It makes my blood boil. This is the face that I and myself know-the plump cheeks, the slender nose. This is my daughter Gulhumar. She is in front of Place du Trocadéro in Paris, strapped in the black coat I gave her. In the photo, she is smiling, holding a miniature East Turkestan flag in her hand, a flag banned by the Chinese government. For Uyghurs, that flag symbolizes the independence movement in the region. This event was one of the demonstrations organized by the French branch of the World Uyghur Congress, representing Uyghurs in exile and protesting China's repression in Xinjiang.

Regardless of whether you are politicized or not, such gatherings in France first bring opportunities for the community to gather, just like birthdays, Eid al-Fitr and Nowruz in spring. You can protest the repression in Xinjiang, but you can also meet friends and chase the exile community like Gurhumar. At that time, Kerim often participated. The girls went once or twice. I never did it. Politics is not my business. Since leaving Xinjiang, my interest has been waning.

Suddenly, the officer slammed his fist on the table.

"You know her, don't you?"

"Yes. She is my daughter."

"Your daughter is a terrorist!"

"No. I don't know why she participated in that demonstration."

I kept repeating: "I don't know, I don't know what she did there, she did nothing wrong, I swear! My daughter is not a terrorist! Nor is my husband!"

I don't remember the rest of the interrogation. I only remember the photo, their provocative question and my futile answer. I don't know how long it lasted. I remember when it was over, I said irritably: "Can I go now? Are we done here?" Then one of them said, "No, Gulbahar Haitiwaji, we are not done yet."

'Correct! Left! comfortable! "There are 40 people in the room, all women, wearing blue pajamas. This is an inconspicuous rectangular classroom. A large metal shutter with small holes allows light to enter and hides us from the outside world. Tens per day In an hour, the whole world shrank to this room. Our slippers creaked on the linoleum. When we marched up and down the room, two Han soldiers kept the time tirelessly. This is called "sports." Education". In fact, this is equivalent to military training.

Our exhausted bodies move in unison, back and forth, left and right, left and right. When the soldiers yelled "Relax!" in Mandarin, our group of prisoners froze. He ordered us to remain still. This may last for half an hour, or it may last for an hour or more. After finishing, our legs started to tingle with needles and needles. Our body is still warm and restless, trying to keep it from swaying in the heat and humidity. We can smell our bad breath. We panted like cows. Sometimes one or the other of us faints. If she does not come, the guard will pull her to her feet and wake her up. If she falls down again, he will drag her out of the room and we will never see her again. At first, this shocked me, but now I am used to it. You can adapt to anything, even fear.

It is June 2017 and I have been here for three days. After nearly five months in the Karamay police cell, between interrogation and arbitrary cruelty – at one stage, I was locked in bed for 20 days as punishment, although I didn’t know why I did this – was told I was going" "School". I have never heard of these mysterious schools or the courses they offer. Someone told me that the government had established them to "correct" Uyghurs. The woman who shared my cell said it was like a Regular school, with Han teachers. She said that once we pass, students can go home freely.

This "school" is located in Baijiantan on the outskirts of Karamay. After leaving the police cell, this is all the information I managed to collect. It was collected from a sign posted in a dry ditch with several empty plastic bags everywhere. Obviously, the training will last two weeks. After that, the theory class began. I don't know how to persist. Why haven't I broken it down? Baijiantan is a no-man's land, from which three buildings rise, each of which is like a small airport. Except for the barbed wire fence, there is nothing but the naked eye.

On my first day, the female guard took me to a dormitory full of beds, where there was only a wooden board. There is already another woman there: Nadira, bunk bed No. 8. I was assigned to bunk bed number 9.

Nadira showed me around the dormitory. The smell of fresh paint exudes from the dormitory: she kicks the bucket of business hard; the window with metal shutters is always closed; two cameras are shaking back and forth in the upper part of the room . There is no mattress and no furniture. There is no toilet paper. There is no worksheet. No sinking. Only two of us closed the door in the dim environment and the heavy cell door banged.

This is not a school. It was a retraining camp, with military rules, and obviously a desire to break us. Silence was imposed, but with the greatest burden physically, we never wanted to talk anymore. As time goes by, our conversations gradually decrease. We were interrupted by the harsh whistle when we woke up while eating and going to bed. The guards are always watching us; there is no way to escape their attention, no way to whisper, wipe their mouths or yawn because they are afraid of being accused of praying. It is against the rules to refuse food because of the fear of being called an "Islamic terrorist". The guard claimed that our food is halal.

At night, I lay sleepy on the bed. I lost all sense of time. There is no clock. I guessed it from a cold or hot perspective throughout the day. The guard terrified me. Since our arrival, we have never seen daylight again-all the windows are blocked by those damn metal shutters. Although one of the policemen promised to call me, I did not receive it. Who knew I was locked here? Have you notified your sister, or Kerim and Gulhumar? It was really a nightmare. Under the dull sight of the security camera, I couldn't even open the door to the detainees. I'm very tired, very tired. I can't even think about it anymore.

The camp is a labyrinth, and the guards led us around in groups according to the dormitory. To take a shower, restroom, classroom or cafeteria, we were escorted to a series of endless fluorescent light corridors. Even a moment of privacy is impossible. At both ends of the corridor, automatic safety doors seal the maze like an airlock. One thing is certain: everything here is new. The paint traces on the spotless walls often remind us. It seems to be a factory building (I will find this is a converted police compound in the future), but I have not yet grasped its scale.

As we walked around, the number of guards and other female prisoners we passed by made me believe that the camp was huge. Every day, I see new faces like zombies, full of bags under my eyes. By the end of the first day, there were already seven people in our cell. There are 12 in three days. Quick math: I calculated 16 cell groups, including mine. Each group has 12 berths. These cell groups are full... There are nearly 200 detainees in Baijiantan. 200 women were torn from their families. Two hundred lives were blocked until further notice. The camp is always full.

You can tell from their distraught faces. They are still trying to meet your eyes in the hallway. Those who have been there looked down at their feet. They shuffle cards at close range like robots. When the whistle ordered their attention, they immediately attracted attention without attracting any attention. God, what did you do to make them like that?

A few days later, I learned what people meant by "brainwashing". Every morning, a Uyghur lecturer will enter our quiet classroom. A woman of her own race taught us how to become Chinese. She treats us like wayward citizens that the party must re-educate. I want to know her thoughts on all this. Does she have any thoughts? Where is she from? How did she get here? Before doing this work, has she received re-education herself?

Under her signal, we all stood together. "

Greetings to the teacher began 11 hours of teaching a day. We pledged allegiance to China: "Thank our great country. Thank you for our gathering. Thank our dear President Xi Jinping." In the evening, a similar version ended the course: "I hope my great country develops and has a bright future. In the future. I hope that all races will form a great nation. I wish President Xi Jinping good health. Long live President Xi Jinping."

Stick to the chair, we repeat the class like a parrot. They have taught us the glorious Chinese history-cleansing version, eliminating abuse. On the cover of the manual, we are inscribed as "re-education plan". It only contains stories about powerful dynasties and their glorious conquests, as well as the great achievements of the Communist Party. It is more political and prejudiced than teaching in Chinese universities. In the early days, it made me laugh. Do they really think they are going to destroy us through a few pages of propaganda?

But as time passed, fatigue began to erupt like an old enemy. I was exhausted, and my determination to resist firmly was put on hold forever. I tried not to give in, but the school started to operate. It rolled over our sore bodies. So this is really brainwashing-repeating the same stupid phrase all day long. As if it were not enough, we had to sleep for an hour after dinner at night before going to bed. We will review our repeated lessons for the last time. Every Friday, we conduct an oral and written test. Taking turns under the watchful eyes of the head of the camp, we recited the communist stew we were served.

In this way, our short-term memory becomes both our greatest ally and our worst enemy. It allows us to absorb and reflect on a large amount of history and loyal citizenship declarations, so we can avoid teachers’ insults to the public. But at the same time, it weakens our critical ability. It takes away the memories and thoughts that bind us together. After a while, I could no longer see the faces of Kerim and my daughter. We worked until we were just stupid animals. No one tells us how long this will last.

In the "education transformation" camp, life and death do not mean the same as other places. I thought it was the footsteps of the guards that awakened us a hundred times in the night, and our time has been executed. When one hand pushed the clipper across my skull fiercely, and the other hand snatched the tufts of hair that fell on my shoulder, I closed my eyes and my tears were lost. The head is almost here, and I am preparing for the scaffolding. Electric chair, drowning. Death lurks in every corner. When the nurse grabbed my arm to vaccinate me, I thought they were poisoning me. In fact, they are disinfecting us. At that time, I learned about the methods of the refugee camp and the strategy being implemented: not to kill us with cold blood, but to let us slowly disappear. So slow, no one will notice.

We are ordered to deny who we are. Spit our own traditions, our beliefs. Criticize our language. Insult our own people. Women like me who came out of the camp are no longer like us. We are the shadow; our soul is dead. I was considered my relative, my husband and my daughter were terrorists. I was so far away, so lonely, so tired and alienated, that I almost finally believed it. My husband Kerim, my daughters Gulhumar and Gulnigar-I condemned your "crime". I ask the Communist Party to forgive the atrocities that neither you nor I committed. I am sorry that everything I said has made you feel ashamed. I am alive today and I want to declare the truth. I don't know if you will accept me, and I don't know if you will forgive me.

How do I start telling you what is happening here?

During the violent cross-examination by the police, I suffered so much that I even made a false confession. They tried to convince me that the sooner I blamed myself for my crime, the sooner I could leave. Exhausted, I finally gave in. I have no choice. No one can fight against himself forever. No matter how relentlessly you struggle with brainwashing, it can do insidious work. All desires and passions cost you your life. What options do you have? Slowly and painfully descend to death or surrender. If you play a game in a state of obedience, if you pretend to have lost the ability to psychologically fight with the police, in spite of this, at least you will stick to a sober way to remind yourself.

I don't believe what I said to them. I just try to be a good actor.

On August 2, 2019, after a short trial, in front of a minority audience, a judge from Karamay declared me innocent. I can hardly hear him. I heard this sentence, it seems to have nothing to do with me. I have been thinking about all the time I have declared my innocence. On the nights when I left the bed and opened the bed, I was angered and no one would believe me. When I accept other people's accusations against me, all the false confessions I made, all these lies, I am thinking about all the other time.

They sentenced me to seven years in prison. They tortured my body and made my mind go crazy. Now, after reviewing my case, the judge has ruled that, in fact, I am innocent. I have time to go.

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