That came as a surprise. I had known she joined the hunger strike in Tiananmen Square but had no idea she’d kept a diary. I said, “I’ll read this carefully and let you know what I think. But in retrospect, how do you feel about your participation in the democracy movement?”

  “I feel I was used by others.”

  “Who are the others?”

  “I’m not sure, but I feel there were powers beyond the reach of a regular student like me, and most of us, the hot-blooded youths, must have been meant to be sacrificed.”

  “Does this mean you regret your participation?”

  “Not really. I was angry and wanted to join the demonstrators so that we could bring about change and political reform. Like others, I, too, want freedom and democracy. I believe that all people holding a public office must disclose their personal assets.”

  “Would you do the same today if you were my age?”

  “Probably. Look, a lot of things we do in life are not rational at all. No human being can always be coolheaded. I believe that insofar I was motivated by good intentions and genuine passion, I wouldn’t have any regrets.”

  I was amazed that her involvement could have been driven by impulsive emotions, so I pressed further: “Does this also mean you don’t regret falling for my dad?”

  “Oh, how I loved him at the time!” A reddish sheen crept over her face, which looked younger for a moment.

  I was moved and picked up the diary. “Thanks for sharing this, Mom.”

  “I hope it will be useful for your studies.”

  “It is,” I assured her, though at the moment I wasn’t sure how useful it could be to my graduate work.

  That night, lying in bed, I began reading her diary. It wasn’t long and started two weeks before the hunger strike, right after a notorious editorial in the People’s Daily that had condemned the student movement as “turmoil,” “a conspiracy,” and “a serious political struggle” between the government and some “black hands” working behind the students. Her diary ended on June 2, the day before the soldiers fought their way into downtown Beijing and suppressed the protest with gunfire and tanks. So it covered roughly five weeks. Most entries were succinct and some consisted only of four or five sentences. I was a tad disappointed, because the diary was short and some items seemed quite meager.

  On April 27, she wrote: All the students on campus are talking about yesterday’s editorial in the People’s Daily: “We Must Be Clear about Our Position Against the Recent Turmoil.” The article obviously voices the view of the hardliners in the politburo and must have been intended to threaten us students and cow us into calling off the protest. But it seems it has backfired, enraging us all the more. Many of us fear that the government will settle accounts with us individually afterward. So on campus there is talk about a larger demonstration.

  I knew the contents of the editorial well. It marked a turning point in the student movement, which had actually been on the decline by then, since the students hadn’t been able to sustain momentum. But instead of curbing the protest, the editorial simply provoked more anger and fear among young people, who believed there was no way to back down now. I read the other entries of my mother’s diary quickly. Her tone of voice was fearful, and I could tell she was deeply involved, both in her emotions and in her protesting activities. During this period she often went to a spot on the campus of Beijing University called the Triangle to listen to speeches given by student leaders and to read big-character posters, most of which were short exposés written in brush. She also listened to Voice of America and the BBC at night, though her English wasn’t good enough for her to understand everything yet. For most students, those foreign broadcasts were the only reliable sources of information, because the Chinese media didn’t tell the truth and mainly served as the government’s mouthpiece.

  The April 28 entry of my mother’s diary records that the day before, she had joined tens of thousands of students and marched twelve miles to Tiananmen Square. This was a regular demonstration, though the idea of a hunger strike had already been talked about among the students. Many local residents gathered in the square too, in total about half a million people. They demanded that the government recant the April 26 editorial. Of course they were ignored. The diary entry on April 29 reflected the students’ fears: Yesterday, the People’s Daily published another article in support of the Shanghai Municipality’s decision to fire the editor in chief of the liberal Monitor of World Economy and to disband the newspaper, which was viewed by the hardliners as a hotbed of reformists. Such a drastic disciplinary measure indicates that there is severe punishment in store for the demonstrators, so we have no option but to push forward.

  I was more interested in my mother’s personal feelings and impressions in the vortex of the historical storm. Among the student leaders, she admired Wang Dan and Chai Ling most. Wang was urbane and looked handsome to her, with soft skin, always wearing a gentle smile. In my mind’s eye I could see her girlish eyes brighten at the presence of such a charismatic young man. As for Chai Ling, my mother admired her eloquence and passion. Chai could deliver fiery speeches off the top of her head—like a blazing flame, she could set others on fire. In my mother’s view, she was a natural leader and could also be enchanting, though her charm mostly surfaced when she got emotional and fierce. My mother also recorded that food at school was not as good as before, perhaps because the kitchens were severely understaffed now, some of the cooks also having taken part in the demonstration. She worried about suspended classes as well. In one entry, she confessed, I haven’t touched a textbook for more than a week. Awful!

  In early May, Zhao Ziyang, the party’s general secretary, returned to Beijing from Pyongyang, to which he had paid a state visit. He and Premier Li Peng clashed in a meeting, and he insisted on a dialogue with the student demonstrators instead of threatening them with punishment. Then, on May 3 and 4, Zhao Ziyang twice spoke about the student movement in his public speeches. My mother liked Zhao, viewing him as a reformer who was sympathetic to the students. He said that all the students’ demonstrations throughout the country were patriotic acts. That seemed to negate the views of the April 26 editorial, so my mother’s fellow students took heart. At the same time, other party officials spoke publicly about the reactionary nature of the student protests, which they claimed incited turmoil that was more outrageous and more dangerous than bourgeois liberalization, and therefore the government must deal with them with forceful measures.

  Still fearful and seeing the government unwilling to change its intransigent position, the student leaders, including Wang Dan and Wuer Kaixi, wanted to apply more pressure on the Li Peng regime and force it to hold a formal dialogue with the students, so they started to organize a hunger strike. There was another thing to consider: Mikhail Gorbachev was coming for the Sino-Soviet summit, which meant there’d be a ceremony held in Tiananmen Square on May 15. So the government would be eager to remove the hunger strikers from it by accepting the students’ terms. Initially fewer than nine hundred students participated in the strike. I wasn’t sure why my mother volunteered to join them. She must have been quite zealous at the time, eager to contribute to social improvement. But she was just small potatoes. As if always pressed for time, she recorded her personal experiences in the hunger strike succinctly.

  MAY 13: We arrive at Tiananmen Square late in the afternoon, some with blisters on our soles due to the twelve-mile walk. All the hunger strikers are sitting or lounging on the paving stones to save energy, unsure how long the strike will last. It’s cold. Without food in our stomachs, some of us can’t help shivering. We huddle together, using our bodies to keep each other warm. Not far away stands the immense Monument to the People’s Heroes, which has turned bluish in the final rays of sunset. The imposing monument makes me pensive. I am sure there are no bodies interred behind the stones, but thousands of people still come to pay homage to it every day. The monument has preserved the heroic spirit and souls. Such a realization calmed me some. Even if we die in the strike and our bodies perish, our act might be remembered and manifested in something like that colossal monument. We might be held as heroes who sacrificed our young lives for our beloved country. It’s quiet, and an aura of solemnity has bathed the entire square. We are told that some student leaders have been in dialogue with the government and that they will keep us updated on any new development, and that we mustn’t fall asleep, because the cold night can make us ill if we aren’t covered. But we have nothing on us except for our thin clothes. Toward midnight, most of us fall asleep nevertheless, our limbs entangled. Some still shiver, even in sleep, but everyone is calm. The fat moon looks pallid, obscured by haze.

  MAY 14: Thank heaven, some local residents turn up in the morning and give us blankets and quilts. Now we have spread these on the ground so we can sit or lie on them instead of on the hard, cold paving stones. Some of us just swaddle ourselves in blankets. By now hunger pangs have set in, and some of us let out small moans, but everybody refuses to eat. We can drink water. A fellow from the Sport University even brought along dry milk and an extract of malt and sugar. We look down on him, some whispering that he is shameless and might taint our image as genuine hunger strikers. In front of us, a long band of white cloth displayed these words: “Mama, I’m Hungry, but I Can’t Eat.” Thousands of locals show up to give their support. Around midafternoon, some hunger strikers faint and have to be carried away. A few ambulances stand outside the zone of the hunger strike, but the rescuers can’t set foot in our ranks to reach those who have fainted. A very capable student leader, Li Lu, with a square face and speaking with a northern accent, came and helped us make a path through the middle of the crowd—the path is kept clear by security members so that medical personnel can come in. We call this path “the life lane,” and without it those who fainted couldn’t be sent away for medical treatment at all. Some hotheads have proposed a radical measure. They want us to go occupy Chang’an Avenue to block the traffic; this would create a big problem for the municipality, because the wide boulevard, running east and west through the city, is a major artery. But most of us won’t go there. We are already exhausted and mustn’t move around. Some more radical ones suggest self-immolation and a few even volunteer to light themselves on fire. But we have no gasoline, which some people have left to acquire. The idea of self-immolation seems to possess quite a few students. I don’t like it and hope it never happens.

  My mother seemed quite rational. I was reading her diary slowly and carefully. Now and again I paused to think about her mental state. It was good that she was self-reflective and aware of the small changes around her.

  MAY 15: Today the number of hunger strikers reached 3,100! Some have come from colleges in other cities. The ground here is messy and littered. There’s an awful smell, since we haven’t washed for two days. Still, things are mostly in order. I must praise the security guards, who are students just like us. Three lines of them stand around us to keep others from getting into the ranks of hunger strikers. The guards usually have to work for many hours in a row, and many of them collapse on duty and have to be shipped away. I also passed out this afternoon. I don’t know who carried me to an ambulance. When I woke up in the children’s hospital, I found myself in a large crib with white lacquered balusters and with an IV in my arm—they were giving me a glucose drip. It was already dark outside, and I wanted to go back and join my comrades. The doctor said they had to keep me for an hour or two to make sure I was all right. I thought that I must stink and wanted to wash up. They led me to the bathroom. How wonderful it was to use a regular bathroom and to wash with warm water again! Hurriedly I gave myself a towel bath. In the square, it’s too far to go to the public lavatories, especially for women, but it’s easier for men to take a leak. Some of them don’t go to use the lavatories in the southeast corner of the square. They just pee into empty water bottles. There is also a bus loaded with buckets serving as a stopgap restroom, and it’s flooded with urine inside. Fortunately none of us have eaten solid food for more than two days, so few of us are pooping.

  MAY 16: We have a broadcast station set up, nestled under the Monument to the People’s Heroes. It is our main source of information now. The broadcasters are great, speaking elegant and refined Mandarin. They must be students of the Media College. One of them is an older woman in her early thirties who calls herself Bei Ming, which might be a fake name. I am not sure if she is a graduate student. She speaks passionately on the air, her voice crisp and endearing. Before news, she often plays classical music, Beethoven, Bach, Tchaikovsky, and Mozart, which is well chosen. At times, an essay or poem she reads is so well received that we ask her to broadcast it again and again. Early in the afternoon, my name is announced over the loudspeaker. A male voice summons me to the broadcast station, saying a friend of mine has come to see me. So I climb up from the ground and stagger over to the base of the monument. At the sight of me, my boyfriend, Fanlin, rushes over and lifts me up. I’m thrilled to see him. He says, “You’re so thin now, Anmin. Why didn’t you let me know you were going to join the hunger strike? At least I could have stayed with you for the first two days.” I ask, “So you wouldn’t have stayed with me here longer than that?” “I can’t,” he says. “We’ve been making a statue called the Goddess of Democracy and are going put it up here, so I have to work with my fellow artists in the studio.” He’s an MFA student at the Central Academy of Fine Arts. He’s a sculptor and must be a major hand in their project. I tell him not to worry about me; there are so many people here that I will be safe and won’t feel lonely.

  MAY 17: By noon today, over six hundred people have collapsed or fainted. Some are severely dehydrated and have started hallucinating, and some even seem deranged. They are sent to nearby hospitals. By now most of the hunger strikers have reached the limits of their endurance. Nevertheless, we are determined to continue, willing to sacrifice our lives to make a fundamental change in our society. More than seventy buses have parked outside the hunger strike zone. Many of them were sent over by the Beijing Municipality, and the medical personnel can’t wait to remove as many of us as possible. This is their task, which ultimately is to remove us all. As a result, many of us are reluctant to leave with them, afraid they might ship us far away so that we can’t return to the square again. I am surprised by the amount of supplies that locals have donated. In some of our drinks, they have mixed in sugar and honey. At times even milk powder, which most of us refuse to use. The locals are not allowed to mingle with us, so they just walk around raising bands of white cloth inscribed with supportive words: Children, You Are Brave Heroes! We Are Always with You! You, Stupid Government, Save Our Kids! Down with Dictatorship! We Have No Need for an Emperor!

  We flash the victory sign at them whenever they pass by.

  It was already past midnight, so I forced myself to stop reading the diary, which might have made it hard for me to get to sleep. I pulled the string to turn off the light and would resume reading the next day.

  My mother wrote on May 18, 1989: Lightning slashes the sky this morning, and thunderclaps crack gray clouds, some of which are trembling and jumping. The meteorologist says there will be a rainstorm today. This unnerves us, because the fear of infectious disease has already alarmed some student leaders. The ground is dingy and soiled in places. A heavy rain can spawn germs and viruses. If an epidemic breaks out and spreads to the city, we will be blamed, and the hunger strike will be regarded as the cause of a calamity. So after eight, we are led to coach buses parked nearby. First, we put in our blankets and other stuff, and then many hunger strikers get on board. But some of us are not sure about these buses, most of which were sent over by the municipal government. We fear that when we are tired and groggy, they might drive us back to campus. To prevent that from happening, our leaders tell us to do something to the tires. In secret some men puncture the tires of the buses, and some just release the air. So in no time most of the coaches can’t move anymore. The drivers are mad at us. The middle-aged driver of our coach blasts, “This is my own bus and I volunteered to come and help you. Now, you ruined my bus. What can I do? I won’t be able to work tomorrow. You’re such ingrates.” One of the culprits explains our reasoning to him. The man says, “In that case, you shouldn’t have slashed my tires. You can just disconnect this wire under the steering wheel. Here.” He shows them where the wire is. “This way you wouldn’t have damaged my bus.” Our leaders apologize again and again. Luckily, the man cools down after blowing off steam.

  In the meantime, Wang Dan, Wuer Kaixi, and other student representatives are in the Great Hall of the People, meeting with Premier Li Peng on our behalf. We are clear about our terms, which are basically twofold: the government must acknowledge our activities as patriotic ones and must agree to hold a formal dialogue with the students. Our demands are clear and simple, also reasonable, so we assume there will be a positive outcome. But we hear that the talk has reached a stalemate. At most, Li Peng says, the students are motivated by patriotic sentiments; apparently he intends to avoid clarifying the nature of our movement. Toward evening, the student leaders come back and declare the failure of our effort to reach out to the government, which is responsible for this deadlock.

  The rain doesn’t fall until it’s dark. Fortunately, we can use the bus as shelter and I can write this diary entry on the bus.

  I was impressed that my mother was so conscientious in keeping her diary. Her handwriting was delicate, like her frail frame, but the characters were clear and neat. It was a pleasure to read what she wrote.

  MAY 19: Early this morning, about four thirty, Zhao Ziyang, the party’s general secretary, shows up with his assistants in the square. The instant we hear of his arrival, we get off the buses and gather around him. It’s said that Li Peng also came in the wee hours, but I didn’t see him. Zhao holds a red battery-powered loudspeaker and addresses the crowd, urging us to stop the hunger strike without waiting for a satisfactory answer from the government, which will take time to come. He looks swarthy and sincere, with a shiny, balding forehead. He says in a tearful voice that he is sorry for coming so late. He sounds doleful, and even claims he is already reaching retirement age, so the country’s future rests on our shoulders. Therefore we must preserve our health and not act destructively. He says that as an old man, he no longer cares what will happen to him, but we are still young, with a bright future, so we mustn’t hurt ourselves like this. He claims he understands our patriotic feelings and admires our enthusiasm, but we ought to be more patient and more reasonable. If we let such a chaotic situation continue, it might get out of hand and backfire. I can feel his honesty and respect him for speaking from his heart. At times, his voice turns constrained and a bit hoarse. He concludes, “As for the demands you made, let us continue to discuss them carefully. Although adequate solutions will take time to reach, we can solve the problems step by step. I hope all of you on the hunger strike are clearheaded about this. We were all young once and also went on strike, and we know what it was like. Please bring your hunger strike to an end.”