Anthony Mitchell
Siewers
Terror With a Human Face
Xianlin Ji’s The Cowshed as a Study of Maoism as a Political Religion
Xianlin Ji watched in horror as the Maoist Red Guards destroyed his home, smashing cupboards and forcing their way through. Left powerless to stop them, Ji was forced to submit and join the Chinese Cultural Revolution to survive. Ji’s memoir, The Cowshed: Memories of the Chinese Cultural Revolution highlights totalitarianism as a political religion because it details the cult-like replacement of traditional Chinese spirituality by a deified Mao with dogmatic Maoist ideology. As a scholar, Ji is conflicted by the application of his Buddhist teaching – “They may not have learned all that much about Buddhist history or beliefs, but they must have paid close attention to the Buddhist hell…” (Ji 2) – in the minds of his former students and in their betrayal, Ji is left with his poignant and raw thoughts. Replacing the triad of Buddhism, Daoism and Confucianism in Chinese spirituality was the deified form of Chairman Mao Zedong, immortal to his wayward followers while a source of immense anguish and suffering to the bourgeoisie. As such, Maoism functions as a de-facto religion, demanding devotion from the imprisoned elite. Ji elucidates the depths to which blind adherence to hard totalitarianism plunges its members, forcing them into an unbreakable cycle, a no-win binary of sufferer versus suffered. While the Chinese Cultural Revolution promised a more prosperous Communist society and enriched existence, it created a random terror and sense of isolation in which Mao seemed to fuse the traditional Chinese emperor with a deified persona. The ideal elements of Maoism – prosperity and safety chief among them – were thus extended only to those willing to offer complete, undying allegiance to the movement.
The Illusion of Progress as a Religious Trope in the Chinese Cultural Revolution
Ji wondered how his thinking had failed to progress, how he could possibly be labeled a counterrevolutionary. In the mind of the peasants, of utmost importance was teaching the perfect way of thinking, to quash any counter-revolution. There was no room for error in the pursuit of a perfect society but the concept was a recycled idea. The unceasing march toward perfection has been a constant trait of totalitarian societies from the Hitlerian attempts at creating a master race to the so-called Great Purges of Stalinism. Rather than man being created in the image of God, striving for perfection through spirituality, the totalitarian system demands a measure of perfection through force. Russian writer Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn questioned the label affixed to these rudimentary endeavors for perfection, under an all-encompassing umbrella of progress. Solzhenitsyn wrote that, “Educated mankind readily put its faith in this Progress. And yet somehow no one pressed the issue: progress, yes, but in what? And of what?” (Solzhenitsyn 544). With Mao Zedong firmly entrenched as the Great Leader in China and with the younger generation readily accepting his doctrine without so much as an inquisitive glance, Maoism became the de-facto replacement for traditional Chinese religion and philosophy during the Chinese Cultural Revolution.
Drawing from his studies in Eastern Languages and Buddhism, Ji viewed the rudimentary butchering of traditional Chinese culture through both its mental and physical ramifications. Ji was suffering from the lashings to his body and the wooden placard hanging from his neck but also from the meaningless suffering of the exercise. Ji was reduced to repeating a Maoist phrase to diffuse the physical and mental pain searing his body – “Make up your mind to fight without counting the costs, overcome all obstacles, and strive for victory!” (Ji 65). What served as a rallying cry for the unencumbered peasant masses thrust into power became a mantra-like means of survival for the “bourgeoisie” littering the country’s “cowsheds”. Cowsheds became the accepted term for makeshift prisons that pocked China’s cities, housing political dissidents whose only crime was a willingness to express a freedom of thought. Maoist teachings were forced upon the prisoners, effectively replacing sacred texts during the Chinese Cultural Revolution in the name of progress. But aligning with Solzhenitsyn, it was progress without process, an aim to improve quality of life but without stopping to consider the inner ramifications of said progress. As Solzhenitsyn writes, “…Progress is indeed marching on…but it is doing so only in the field of technological civilization.” (Solzhenitsyn 544). In the Chinese Cultural Revolution, progress as it relates to civilization was only realized through imprisonment and censorship, the impure elements of progress were all that remained. As Solzhenitsyn continues, “All we had forgotten was the human soul.” (Solzhenitsyn 545).
In his own words, Ji’s “soul was cleansed” (Yu, 31) through his interest in Buddhism, instilling a universal sense of purity that conflicts with the destructive nature of totalitarianism. While Ji viewed progress through revolution as a necessary step, he would have been at odds with the methods used. In Ji lies a thorough intellectual, devoted to his craft as a professor of Eastern languages, yet who largely eschewed the traditional avenues for intellectual thought outside of a collegial setting. Ji held a disdain for politics, involving himself in the matter more for camaraderie than genuine interest and did not consider himself particularly devout religiously. But perhaps in doing so, Ji had an ability to view his circumstances through a realist lens – to reference the quote above, Ji imagined substituting “and strive for victory!” with “and strive not to collapse!” (Ji 65). And collapsing is an apt turn of phrase for an individual struggling to survive – concretely in bodily form and psychologically with his mental faculties undoubtedly frayed. For an individual without a steadfast religious background, Ji was forced to fight endlessly against the escape route offered by suicide.
The hesitancy that Ji felt in determining appropriate thought at this time was unfortunately not his burden alone. Peking University workers shuddered at the thought of joining discussions with intellectuals – the risks were simply too great. By burrowing into the thought process of their enemies, the Red Guards, the youthful military wing of Mao’s army, had succeeded. In application, the students-turned-masters may have succeeded in creating progress but that largely depends on personal definitions of progress. The Chinese Cultural Revolution advanced the notion of Mao Zedong, exemplifying his title, “The Great Leader”, while repressing free expression throughout the country. In a discussion relating to Nazism – although the idea applies to any religion – Waldimar Gurien writes that the goal of totalitarian regimes is “not the restriction and the control of the public activities of the Church but the complete destruction of religion and the Church.” (Gurien 10). The Red Guards focused on ‘the complete destruction’ element of Gurien’s argument. By erasing all aspects of daily life prior to the start of the Revolution or at least through an attempt, the Red Guards created a “constant fear” (Solzhenitsyn 321) in citizens. Rather than a Buddha allowing for an association with peace and tranquility, Mao evokes sentiments of terror and the ever-present fear of arrest. It was a perverted sense of progress.
Solzhenitsyn begs the question, to consider the relative cost of Progress. “…might we not lose something in the course of this Progress?” (Solzhenitsyn 544). In an experience similar to Solzhenitsyn’s own experiences in the Soviet Gulag system, dissenting thought was completely outlawed in China – “Outward expressions of religion were completely forbidden. All religious ritual was discontinued.” (Zuo 101). Progress was limited to the ruling class, the peasants and students, and in the process, China’s national identity was stripped – “several Red Guards barged in and declared that they were about to destroy ‘the Four Olds’” (Ji 19). “The Four Olds” was the collective name given by the Red Guards to the old customs that had pervaded Chinese culture – Old Ideas, Old Culture, Old Habits and Old Customs. In the name of progress, these were unofficially replaced with “The Four News” – New Ideas, New Culture, New Habits and New Customs. Ji states in his efficient style that the Guards had sent him away “to be reeducated” (Ji 6) and there is a clear break in his mindset, a crack in his will that could be seen as progress to the Red Guards. The rather-bland innocuous statement affords a hint to Solzhenitsyn’s question. Ji had started to submit for survival in a losing battle.
Ji’s knees started to quiver, his calves burning in a similar sensation to that of his mind, struggling to keep focus as the continual struggle sessions took their toll. The struggle sessions were public humiliation and torture spectacles perpetrated by the Red Guards in which individuals were forced to admit to crimes, true or untrue, at the risk of physical abuse. Long before the aptly-named struggle sessions that would come to define his existence in the Cowshed, Ji was tormented by the possibility of arrest. Without ever laying a hand on him, the Chinese Cultural Revolution had been successful in subjugating Ji into mental arrest. Ji was caught in a vicious duopoly – rely on his moral character and face a beating or humiliate himself and allow the physical pain to be replaced by the mental pain of shame.
In a religious light, Ji had been lifted. But rather than gliding down to Earth, protected by the faith of a wholesome true religion, Ji was ever alienated by the quasi-religion that had swept through China. In agreement, Gurien writes that all totalitarian movements since World War I are fundamentally religious due to their ultimate goal – “the reshaping of the nature of man and society.” (Gurien 4). Whereas religious sects preach core tenets of compassion and understanding to reshape mankind as one, totalitarian movements preach division and vitriol. The methods may differ but the end result is eerily similar – a new concept of society. Ji opened his eyes metaphorically to a new existence, ostracized from his teaching duties and cast as a dissident in his own city.
Ji chewed on the idea of revolutionary progress in his brain, opening his eyes to the shocking scene that surrounded him. Without any clear option for survival, Ji sought a resolution in a harrowing anecdote. Ji paints a vivid portrayal of the perverted religious elements of totalitarianism, crumbling under the immense weight of rationalizing suicide. Ji’s primary concern is not in the act of pure finality that suicide represents, but in finding the proper way to do so. The atomization that characterizes willing dissidents in a totalitarian state is clear to Ji as he remarks, “People would call me cowardly ‘for alienating myself from the people’ by committing suicide, but I reflected that there was no point in caring what people said about you after you were dead.” (Ji 48). Without a deity to consult, no Buddha or Messiah with whom to share his deepest troubles, Ji was left in shambles after the Revolution had captured his identity. Gurien adds – in reference to the Christian Church but with a concept that can be applied to any religion – that “They (totalitarian regimes) are bitterly opposed to her doctrine, to her influence on the souls of men.” (Gurien 11). For a totalitarian regime, outward religion represents competition, an instrument of opposing free thought that must be vanquished. In essence, a totalitarian state is soul-crushing. In that vein, Ji expunges the torturous mental demons of the Revolution by crafting his end-of-life plan, remarking, “Once I had decided to commit suicide, I became clearheaded and calm.” (Ji 48). Ji’s choice of words in this instance serve as something of an affront to totalitarianism. Calm and clear thought were at a premium in the Cowshed, as every word, action or expression was ripe for potential punishment and Ji claims a small victory over his mental captors with a figurative sound mind.
The whimpers from tortured prisoners only seemed to empower the Red Guards, feeding from the powerless struggle all around. Instituted through The Red Guards, Mao Zedong sought to force compliance, tormenting dissenters slowly until a breaking point. Similar to the authorities arresting Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, the Red Guards targeted places of refuge for capturing dissenters, allowing the relative serenity and security of familiar surroundings to start the process of capture. The method revealed itself to a groggy Ji in 1968, with his former students exhibiting shades of Judas Iscariot – “Of the two men guarding the kitchen, one was a student of mine called Gu. He had been a student of Korean language and history in my department, but now we were enemies.” (Ji 39). Much like the other sinister elements of a totalitarian regime, there was a calculated efficiency to the terroristic upheaval of destroying one’s possessions in service to an omnipotent leader.
The unfeeling clarity of the Red Guards draws to mind the concept of blind faith. Claude LeFort would expand on this idea by adding that in a totalitarian state, “Every individual sees himself caught up in an us, a nous, which imposes a break with the outside…” (LeFort 182). In the same way in which a given religion asks for a sense of devotion in exchange for the inherent camaraderie of similar beliefs, a totalitarian state acts in the same manner. However, in a totalitarian state, the concept of us shrinks consistently until the system falters. The Red Guards consisted largely of high school and college-aged individuals, lured to rebel against their elders through a socialist education camp, that Ji writes threw “Peking University into chaos…Eventually, the crossfire died down, and we were all sent to the villages to be reeducated by peasants.” (Ji 6). Without a true deity to worship, the Red Guards were transfixed by Maoist teaching.
Ji was free, he no longer had to hide his thoughts. He had become one of them, embracing the Great Leader. He was forced to progress. In that progress, Ji appeared to lose himself, rejoicing in the illusion of freedom that aligning fully with the Revolution afforded him and tossing aside his previous disdain for their methods. Ji adds, “I was glad I decided to join them, but one unfortunate consequence of the decision was that I too became caught up in partisan fever since I no longer had to hide my opinions.” (Ji 36).
It is worth noting the title used to describe Mao – The Great Leader. While on the surface a term of respect, the title and its related phrasings throughout historical totalitarianism – Supreme Leader in modern-day North Korea or Our Great Guide in 1940s Albania, etc. – suggest a quasi-deification of the head individual. The major totalitarian leaders in history, your Hitlers, Stalins and the like projected an anti-religious worldview, placing themselves in the position of their former religious idol, guided by political zealotry. When Christianity fell out of favor with Stalin and Hitler, they sought to eliminate religious expression in their territories. Guided by his own free will, Ji is an apolitical soul but the fervor of the movement encapsulates him, leading to a diary entry that would likely have shocked the former Ji, that of an academic. Writing “I would die to protect the direction of the Great Leader’s Revolution!” (Ji 36), Ji channels his inner Winston Smith from George Orwell’s seminal novel 1984, acquiescing with the accepted Party doctrine, attempting to preserve his own safety. Given Ji’s on-again, off-again outward allegiance to the regime in the face of constant torture and ridicule, Ji’s mindset can best be categorized by Solzhenitsyn’s concept of totalitarianism that created a world in which individuals looked to “survive at any price”. Ji continuously searches for the elusive carrot of progress, aligning himself with any revolutionary sect that may grant him momentary peace and protection, like an individual experiencing a crisis of faith.
The only “faith” available to Ji would have been Maoism with its visions of a revolutionary Utopia. Mao envisioned immense progress with his Great Leap Forward but in reality, Mao’s vision relates to the Amida Buddhist sect, which promised a spiritual rebirth for all believers as quickly as possible to create an Earthly Nirvana, therefore the ideology could be seen as a regression. Arriving in China in the early 5th Century A.D., the Amidist doctrine promised a new world in which “people would live in equality and physical comfort, freed from the constant worries of subsistence living, official harassment, disease, and death.” (Overmyer 5) Given its similarities to the class struggle representative of Marxism, Maoism’s use of the peasantry to lead revolutionary efforts sought to establish one class of citizens. With the Chinese intellectual contingent – the elite class – imprisoned and beaten, aligning oneself with the disrupting class represented an opportunity for immunity.
Ji was shaken by the prospect of joining the Revolution, much preferring to stay on the fringes and take his lumps as they presented themselves – “Eventually, I knew, the storm was going to crush me.” (Ji 37). Ji had become a true progressive, in the revolutionary sense of the word but he was unclear what it meant. Solzhenitsyn wrote that the term progress has evolved to evoke a sense of pride in his recitation but the meaning behind the word has vanished. Solzhenitsyn gained first-hand knowledge of the horrors of the Soviet gulag system and would have likely offered a disgusted sigh at the treatment of the prisoners in the Cowshed. The educated mankind embodied by the Red Guard surely believed in progress but from the viewpoint of Solzhenitsyn, the torturous elements of their progress would fall firmly under the inquisitive “in what” of his musings. Forced to learn Maoist sayings under constant threat of punishment created an ever-submissive class of prisoners in the Cowshed – “When a guard recited the first phrase of any quotation from Chairman Mao, that would be your cue to complete the sentence unless you wanted a beating.” (Ji 91). Rather than using religious teaching for reward, the Red Guards used their stand-in religion to foster despondency and compliance.
This stand-in religion, the Maoism sweeping the country, caused Ji’s mind to race and his thoughts to scatter, wondering if he would be the next target. Ji explains that he had never stopped to ask himself the formational philosophic questions and his related place in the cosmos but Maoism forced a reassessment of seemingly every aspect of Chinese life, it was only natural for an intellectual such as Ji to ponder creationist thought. As such, Ji was “relieved to eventually realize that I had not been labeled an enemy of the people.” (Ji 22). In his own words, Ji is seen as a nose-to-the-grindstone archetype, an individual whose main purpose begins and ends with academic study, by all accounts his intentions, even in joining the Jinggangshan faction of the Red Guards, were wholesome. According to Chinese philosopher Wang Yangming, “…good and evil cannot be separated from human ‘intention.’ Human action can only be evaluated in the context of specific concrete situations.” (Stanford) Applying Yangming’s theory to totalitarianism, a distinction can be drawn between the Maoist Red Guards and Ji, a Red Guard out of survival.
Ji may well have waved a banner in support of the Chinese Cultural Revolution while feeling its wrath, such were the complicated emotions of the man. Ji states, “I know that I myself never stopped believing in the Cultural Revolution, even as I was being persecuted.” (Ji xxii). His statement lies at the heart of a difficult question – How can an individual discover a proverbial silver lining in the face of near-certain death? In Ji’s case, Ji scholar Longyu Yu hypothesizes that his Marxist beliefs – gleaned from influential teachers as a teen and young adult – were at the center of his thoughts in reconciling the prospect of torture as an individual to advance the collective goal. “At that time, the country was in shambles; the warlords had let all hell loose, people were finding it hard to make two ends meet, and the social thinking was in complete disarray.” (Yu 356). In that statement, Yu succinctly details the necessary elements for a revolutionary movement to occur and/or for individuals to field aspirations. Ji could sympathize with the ideology floating inside the minds of the Red Guards, relating to his similar position as a college-aged individual. Ji found clear worth in the Maoist ideology which filled the air even if there was a difference in its application. While his body cried out for mercy, Ji could find solace in a new dawn resulting from his suffering. In the mind of an avowed Marxist, that could be seen as progress.
The Hidden Meaning of Struggle Sessions as Religious Experiences in the Chinese Cultural Revolution
Relief flushed over Ji, everyone needed to be a revolutionary in Maoist ideology, whether willing or forced. Faced with the torture of stones gnashing against his body, fists and feet rhythmically crashing into his ribs, Ji was calm – at least the humiliation would subside in short order. Ji states, “Instead of making long speeches, they limited themselves to punching and kicking and pelting me with stones. I was relieved at not having to hold the airplane position.” (Ji 63). The “airplane position” that Ji alludes to perhaps only added to the torturous aspect of struggle sessions as victims were forced to keep their heads down in a crouch with their arms twisted behind, one wrist grasping the other. Struggle sessions, while they may have bonded victims together in shared suffering, ultimately alienated them from larger society, branded as criminals regardless of any actual criminal acts. The grand spectacle, enjoyed by the demented masses gathered on the outskirts on Ji’s Cowshed would end, but the resulting atomization lingered and that was the hidden meaning of endless struggle sessions.
Ji’s mouth was full of blood from a particularly-horrendous struggle session when he had an epiphany. “If I could survive this, I decided, I had nothing more to fear.” (Ji 57). Ji had grown to appreciate the art of his suffering and it had strengthened his resolve. In a similar manner, German philosopher Hannah Arendt states, “…men in the midst of communal disintegration and social atomization wanted to belong at any price.” (Arendt 270). The emphasis in regards to Ji is on ‘belong’ as Ji had discovered the escape route that struggle sessions had provided, in a sense owing his life to Maoism. Ji was in a sense giving thanks to the nature of struggle sessions for providing his life with purpose.
Minds erode and bodies collapse eventually. In the decades since the Cultural Revolution, historians and journalists have discussed the psychological torture evident in the throes of a struggle session, forcing an individual to wilt out of necessity. But the enduring legacy of struggle sessions is the resulting lack of a holistic center. To strip individuals of that holistic center, struggle sessions sought to sever ties between the sufferers and their former lives. By potentially convincing oneself of crimes or incriminating others in the process, all to release the shackles of pain, victims rapidly reached a point of no return. But Ji never reached that point in which an individual succumbs to the mental and physical anguish by preparing for an inner war. “I am only alive now because I was too stubborn before. It turned out that I could endure greater pain than I realized.” (Ji 58). Drawing from his academic background in Buddhism, Ji stated that one should have, “…actions guided by the conclusion that one gets from seeking truth from facts.” (Yu 32). Factually, Ji was under attack by a misguided threat but he could still explore the truth that he was alive and apply it to overcoming his obstacles.
In the early days of the Revolution, Ji was determined not to join any concrete faction. While he agreed with the large-scale ideology being peddled, the risk was too great. He states, “To be free and unfettered, I thought was the only bright road as well as the faction for me.” (Yu 412). Any advantages gained from joining a faction could not outweigh the allure of staying fully detached in Ji’s mind. Whittaker Chambers elaborates on the psychology of this conscious decision in his memoir Witness, that of a Communist willingly escaping the ideology – “A Communist breaks because he must choose at last between irreconcilable opposites – God or Man, Soul or Mind, Freedom or Communism.” (Chambers xlv). Ji was making a similar case for not publicly aligning with Communism – resist the Revolution as long as possible or submit. But Ji’s hand was ultimately forced. Through the near-constant threat of struggle sessions and the social death that followed, resistance or the free choice of which Chambers describes was hardly an option for Ji and the like during the Cultural Revolution. Not that Ji was resigned to his fate while under the proverbial thumb of the Red Guards, rather the choices in Chambers’ statement were already decided for him. Chairman Mao had become a replacement deity, Ji was stripped of his soul as his mind was force-fed Maoist doctrine, which left nothing but Communism in its wake.
Ji is left figuratively shaking his head at the depths to which the Red Guards will sink to gain psychological control. He expands, relating the Red Guards to devils present in Buddhist doctrine, “Buddhist devils don’t force their prisoners to memorize sutras and chant them, punishing every mistake with a slap to the face.” (Ji 3). With products of the rhetoric forced on their impressionable minds, their response feels somewhat Pavlovian, see error, hit prisoner. Conscious thought has left the equation. By admonishing the slightest error on the point of the prisoners, the Red Guards created a concrete hegemony – the peasants and students had transformed into authority figures while the former authority figures were left to cower and fend for their lives. Forcing prisoners to chant Maoist slogans, the Red Guards established a hold on their collective minds. As such the prisoners were left to weigh the price of freedom, either complete or through death, versus the torture and dishonor of struggle sessions (relate to political religion). In an Orwellian manner, the prisoners needed to become well-versed in doublethink. As Orwell writes in 1984, “All that was needed was a series of unending victories over your own memory.” (Orwell,10). The prisoners in the Cowshed may have denounced Mao privately but allowing that rhetoric to escape the safe confines of one’s mind could be deadly. As such, self-censorship abounded.
Ji dissected his Buddhist teachings, clinging to the possibility of a savior to dismantle the power struggle which led to his suffering in struggle sessions. But much like the protagonist, Winston Smith, in Orwell’s novel, who ultimately submits to the ruling Party and professes love for “Big Brother”, Ji does the same, extolling Mao. “Never having put my trust in any god, buddha, or bodhisattva, I turned instead to the Great Leader. At night, after long days of work and struggle sessions, I would sit up and write letters to Chairman Mao…” (Ji 72). The individual responsible for the formation of the Red Guards, the institution of struggle sessions and the construction of the Cowshed in which Ji suffered daily had been extolled by him. The episode from Ji speaks to the power of totalitarian states to force devotion upon any dissidents, slowly disintegrating their physical and mental resolve until two options remain – align with the ruling Party and its deified leader or cease to exist.
But let us hypothesize if Ji, in all of his complicated wisdom, were to have desired a clean break from the Communist Party, a respite from the torture and atomization. What could have been his next step? Much in the same way a religious sect creates a makeshift community from like-minded individuals, the Maoist regime inadvertently created a community from the despondent masses in the Cowshed. As Chambers explains, the Communist Party had served as a surrogate family for him, the necessary complete allegiance to the cause alienating him from his actual family. Chambers struggles with the prospect of leaving the Communist Party because doing so would destroy his inner support system and a temporary escape from the Party would offer little more than “an intellectual night’s lodging.” (Chambers lxi). Ji appears to embrace Communism in roughly the same manner. As the Red Guards have destroyed his cherished possessions and sense of community, Ji chooses to repeatedly mend his wounds and struggle again. “I was free to go, and felt like a death row prisoner in the old novels receiving a pardon.” (Ji 57).
At its most basic, totalitarianism seeks to dehumanize individuals through a forced willingness to accept a place in the State apparatus. Rather than allowing individuals to seek the rejuvenation and grace afforded by traditional religions, totalitarianism bastardizes the institution of faith, in whatever form that may take, and when instituted, gives individuals a choice between life and death. Do the punished harden and persevere through a life of torture or do they seek an escape? Ji details both options in the binary and ponders both deeply. “There were only two choices open to me. I could either bear my fate or escape it. The former I didn’t think I could do, and yet I could barely imagine the latter…” (Ji 48). In a literal dilemma between life and death, Ji delineates one of the horrors of a totalitarian state – the illusion of free will.. Ji is prodded to consider the benefits of suicide by the constant torture of struggle sessions, casting aside Chinese social convention that effectively prohibits taking one’s life. But such is the danger present when trapped under the foot of a totalitarian state, in this case, 1960s China. In a sense, perhaps the most important doctrine to understanding Ji’s predicament was never revealed. In essence, “Kneel before the altar of Mao or face death.”
An effervescent calm washed over Ji at the conclusion of his conscious life. In a decision that seemingly eschewed the elder respect that serves as a pillar of Chinese culture, Ji declares his individuality, free from the literal and figurative shackles of an oppressive regime. In doing so, the vaunted struggle sessions had embodied their name mentally as the immense strain of the situation took hold. Underscoring the toll that constant devotion to Mao in daily life caused, Ji states that, “Scores of professors and cadres had committed suicide in the months since the Cultural Revolution had begun.” (Ji 48). The fact that not only had professors succumbed to suicidal ideation rather than face an empty existence as a political prisoner but that scores of individuals had found that path appealing speaks to the all-encompassing nature of totalitarianism. Through his personal anecdotes interspersed in accounts of professors finding peace in death, Ji allows the reader to understand the desire of these individuals to martyr themselves. In one particular example, Ji tells the story of an underground dissenter ending his life by ingesting pesticides – “I shuddered at the thought of him rolling on the ground in pain, the pesticide burning his stomach.” (Ji 49). By ultimately deciding against suicide, Ji shows a willingness to struggle against struggle sessions, to create a mental barrier between himself and his captors.
Trapped in a battle of wills, a prizefight between mind and body, Ji refused to relent. In much the same vein that devout believers in Western religions may practice self-flagellation to experience the pain of Christ or Imam Husain, Ji views withstanding struggle sessions as strengthening his beliefs. Ji expands, “I was in a precarious position. My legs could barely support the weight of my body…But I gritted my teeth and told myself, ‘Don’t give up! Think what would happen if you collapsed.” (Ji 56). While a true flogging would have occurred had Ji cracked under the immense pressure, surviving the ordeal allows Ji to disconnect and process the struggle sessions from an ideological standpoint and despite the physical and mental bruising, one element appears clear – Ji views the struggle sessions as necessary for revolutionary progress.
The image was seared into the forefront and recesses of Ji’s mind, ever-accessible even as he tried to sanitize it from his memory. Ji may have viewed struggle sessions as a required aspect of the Revolution but he was conflicted as to his own role in their continual use. Relating a particularly-horrifying struggle session, Ji doubles down on the quasi-religious persecution that stood as a hallmark of the ordeal – a perceived enemy of Maoism must pay with blood and pain. As he states, “I was insensible to the pain. I knew that I was being pelted with small rocks, but I was only dimly aware of the journey to the main cafeteria and back.” (Ji 75).
Ji was lost in his thoughts, wistfully imagining a world without struggle sessions and constant harassment. Ji’s commitment to the cause – seeking to discover the most humane way possible to end his life speaks to the vice-grip that Maoist ideology had on the Chinese intellectual community. If Ji were alone in his thoughts, his sentiments may be overlooked by a casual observer but the numbers, although, sadly, estimates as official death totals appear lost to time, speak for themselves. Historians estimate that 65 million Chinese citizens were killed as a result of The Great Leap Forward. At the heart of the movement was intense atomization. Political theorist Hannah Arendt stated that “Mass atomization in Soviet society was achieved by the skillful use of repeated purges which invariably precede actual group liquidation.” (Arendt 367). The same idea can be applied to the Chinese struggle sessions in that the Red Guards hurling insults and objects at dissenters sought a purge of any beliefs that strayed from the accepted Maoist doctrine. If one struggle session didn’t prove fruitful, the practice continued until any opposing views were liquidated.
In a similar sense, Solzhenitsyn can only utter a slice of dark humor when telling of his predicament in the Soviet Gulag, exclaiming, “Bless you, prison!” (Solzhenitsyn 313) to describe the life-changing effect that his imprisonment produced. While Ji never agrees with Solzhenitsyn’s seemingly-heartfelt sentiment, a clear pride emanates from Ji at the thought of surviving his punishment, as physically and mentally scarred as they leave him. Recalling Christian martyrs, Ji was nearly pushed to suicide by the continual prospect of torture but relays that, “Remaining uncooperative from beginning to end saved me from committing suicide…” (Ji 123). Ji effectively dared the Red Guards to end his life as he possessed the mental fortitude, after much contemplation, to withstand the lashings and insults hurled at him.
Knocked Down, Dragged and Left for Dead: A Replacement Religion Forged From Violence
Ji prayed for relief from the constant torture and beatings but it was a futile exercise, for a respite that never came. “I spread my legs, crawled toward the bricks, made a heap of them, and crawled toward the fence to hurl them over…As I crawled about wordlessly, I couldn’t help weeping” (Ji 79). With perspective gained from decades removed from the ordeal, the physical wounds healed while the mental scars remained, Ji arguably considers himself one of the lucky few, surviving to tell of the widespread atrocities of the Chinese Communist Revolution. While there were survivors, in Ji’s mind no one was willing to relive their terror, perhaps preferring to understandably repress the memory. Ji gains his long-awaited respite through writing the book, seeing a window of opportunity to be the orator of an oppressed group as “many of the generation who were persecuted were beginning to pass away…” (Ji xxvi). Many did not experience the same fortune as Stephane Courtois estimates a death toll of 65 million souls under Mao’s regime (Courtois 4). Among those killed in the early formation of the Revolution were members of Chinese folk religion and pockets of clergymen in true totalitarian fashion. “Foreign clergy in Catholic and Protestant churches were sent home, while Chinese clergy were ousted, imprisoned or even killed” (Wang 180). Even if Ji were outwardly religious, he likely would have found little in the way of support. “Government pronouncements declared religion to be a superstition that must be replaced by Marxist doctrine.” (Zuo 101). Ji could have found a form of slight agreement in the standard Communist attitudes toward religion throughout history, given his aversion to active practice in light of his scholarly interest. “(The abolition of religion) has been repeatedly proclaimed in socialist doctrines, beginning with the end of the seventeenth century.” (Shafarevich 225).
Perhaps the most-efficient way in which Maoism gained followers was through realized violence or the threat of violence. The word-of-mouth traditions through which fully-formed religions spread may have also applied to Maoism but rather than prayer and quiet contemplation, the oral tradition was, “Down with…insert dissident’s name here.” But the effect was the same. Inflicting pain only increased the scope of the power struggle. Aligning with the Maoist custom, Ji’s body had been broken by the Red Guards, but his mind was arguably broken by his stubbornness to survive. Maoism sought to destroy the “Four Olds” of customs, values, ideas, and traditions, reshaping Chinese culture and disintegrating the national pride at the heart of Ji’s identity and the identity of many in China. In fact, as expatriate Chinese journalist Zha Jianying notes, “To Ji and perhaps many others, to have endured unspeakable debasement and humiliation, and survived somehow reflects a weakness in one’s moral character and is therefore a continuous source of shame.” (Ji xvi). The Maoist “religion” forced the Chinese intelligentsia to capitulate any sense of social order other than one country under Mao.
In its rise, Maoism forced intellectualism to the fringes of society, into the mysterious underground for survival. Ji was stripped of his role as Department Head for Eastern Languages, relating to his status as an authority figure preventing a complete revolution – “I had, at some point, ceased to be the department head, though it was unclear if or when I had been dismissed.” (Ji 23). The chaos surrounding Ji’s professorial duties was indicative of the haphazard nature of the Revolution from his perspective. Make a stronger connection here – the shift is sudden – For the Red Guards, the Revolution represented an opportunity for retribution against authority and little more, violence for the sake of violence without a chance to atone for any sins. But due to inconsistencies in enforcement and violence by the Chinese military units, the former intelligentsia was not fully excised, often by rogue troops. “Local cadres sometimes even resisted religious directives from their superiors, and some even actively participated in or sheltered religious activities.” (Wang 180). While’s Ji memoir depicts his own experiences of forced repetition of Maoist phrases as the only accepted religion under fear of violence in Beijing, the strict enforcement and punishment did not fully extend to rural China.
While Maoism found its greatest foothold in urban areas, demanding allegiance to the Great Leader in every aspect of daily life, ready and willing to punish the slightest whiff of dissent. Rather than an inescapable war against traditionalism under which the cities were succumbing, the rural areas and smaller cities experienced a degree of freedom to worship – or not worship – as they pleased. Years before successor Deng Xiaoping largely abolished Maoism from Chinese public thought, a world free from the full scope of Mao’s influence existed in cities like Rui’an, a city on the geographical margins of China in relation to the centralized Beijing. In relation to metaphorical and literal margins, Wang continues, “…there was always a space for religious activities at the margins of political campaigns.” (Wang 180). The Chinese economy under Mao was unstable and social life was restricted but with the state-sponsored militia willing to occasionally turn a blind eye to individuals expressing religious freedom, the authoritarian hopes of Maoism were left incomplete.
During the Cultural Revolution in Beijing, the characteristic thud of flesh smacking flesh reverberated through Ji’s Cowshed at night. Relating the waiting game before a struggle session as akin to the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, Ji expresses sarcastic remorse at the quasi-religious spectacle only lasting a few months. Without the uplifting elements of traditional religion, Ji uses such remarks as a device to retaliate against Maoist religion – a muted literary “violence” to match the literal violence that he endured. Perhaps in a figurative assessment of the moral shortcomings of Maoism, Ji relays that many of the Maoist torture techniques involved an extended reaching for empty space, whether in the airplane position or in the blinding torture tecnique perpetrated by the Red Guards during which an individual was forced to stare at the sun without blinking, lest they be punished. Rather than a triumphant arm raising signifying Heavenly devotion, extended arms in the Cowshed only meant torture.
Ji’s moments of dark humor in reminiscence fly in opposition to the allowed expressions in the Cowshed. “I have already mentioned that the inmates had long since lost the ability to laugh…No, laughter wasn’t forcibly stolen from us; we gave it up of our own accord.” (Ji 97). The Guards had succeeded in breaking the will of the inmates to the point where any light expression was effectively outlawed, the desire to experience emotions other than dread and worry nonexistent. The constant fear of punishment dictated the actions of Ji and the other prisoners, forced to drag their ragged bodies around the Cowshed and submit. Laughter would only increase the threat of punishment as a stone-faced seriousness or cries were the only accepted emotions.
Despite his best efforts, Ji could never fully escape his experiences in the Cowsheds. Following the end of the Chinese Cultural Revolution with Mao’s death in 1976, Ji returned to Peking University and almost immediately resumed his role as an esteemed academic mind. But his experiences with torture led him to visit university students staging a hunger strike in Tianenmen Square in 1989. Appalled by the students’ plight, Ji demanded he be arrested along with the students, determined to not see them suffer alone. Jianying states, “The policemen were so startled they called Peking University officials, who rushed over and forcibly brought Ji back to campus.” (Ji, xviii) In reflection, Jianying lauds Ji as a “true Confucian scholar” for his selflessness in establishing solidarity with the students. No official death toll from the Tiananmen Square protests was released but much like Maoism, discussions on the topic are actively discouraged.
Epilogue
Ji effectively provided a voice for a generation of Chinese intellectuals persecuted under Maoism, bringing to light the atrocities of the country’s Cowsheds with the publication of his memoir in 1998. Ji was not a writer by trade. But the lack of formal instruction in crafting literature allows Ji to tap into his honest thoughts and reveal the deep conflicting nature of his person, as an avid Communist writing of the horrors of a Communist system. Ji died in 2009 and up until his death, he spoke at length of the need to remember the Chinese Cultural Revolution and not lose the events to the passage of time. His memoir accomplishes just that, preserving the events in all of their repugnant detail. Ji’s legacy lives on, with his memoir lauded as a “powerful and important testimony about the darkest moment in modern Chinese history.” (Ji xvii). Maoism functioned as a political religion in the concept of Mao serving as a replacement deity but also as the ideology weaved its way into every aspect of Chinese cultural life, dominating the daily existence of millions from 1966 to 1976.
In the years since Ji’s death, China has experienced a resurgence in Maoist thought, largely under Chairman Xi Jinping’s rise to power in 2012. Under Xi’s rule, mass internment camps have been reinstituted to house Uyghur Muslims and other individuals in Xinjiang Province under the guise of reeducation, hence the formal name “Xinjiang Vocational Education and Training Centers”. The naming convention used calls to mind the phrasing from Ji, given the official title for the regulations in the reeducation camps of the Chinese Cultural Revolution, “Rules for Persons Undergoing Reform Through Labor”. (Ji 87). The creative manipulation of language for a political purpose serves as an attempt to distract from any atrocities within the walls of the forced labor camps. However, the closely-guarded secrets of the Xinjiang internment camps have not remained a secret as “International experts and human rights groups have raised concerns about government-arranged transfers from reeducation to employment programmes.” (Soliev 77). The reeducation camps have served to expunge any dissidents from existence. Much like Ji brought the atrocities of struggle sessions under Maoism to light, the torture techniques used in the Xinjiang internment camps are horrific and well-publicized. Xi has assumed the role of a replacement deity in modern China. Individuals must obey or face the possibility of torture and/or death. Ji would likely be appalled by recent events but as Winston Churchill famously stated in a 1948 speech to the House of Commons, “Those that fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”
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