by Xinran
Old Chen was eager to discuss the subject. ‘Chinese women have religious faith,’ he said, ‘but they seem to be able to believe in several religions at the same time. Women who believe in the spiritual and physical exercises of qigong are always changing the type of qigong they practise and the Master they follow; their gods come and go too. You can’t blame them: the hardships of life make them long for a way out. As Chairman Mao said, “poverty gives rise to a desire for change.” Now we believe in Mao Zedong and Communism, but before we believed in Heaven, in the Celestial Emperor, in Buddha, in Jesus and in Mohammed. Despite our long history, we have no native faith. The emperors and rulers were considered deities, but they changed constantly and people became accustomed to worshipping different gods. As the saying goes, “For a hundred people there are a hundred beliefs.” In fact, you could say that there is no real belief at all. Women are much more pragmatic than men, so their attitude is to cover all the bases. They can’t make out which god has power or which spirit is useful, so they’ll believe in every one of them, just to be on the safe side.’
I knew that what he said was true, but wondered how people managed to reconcile the mutually antagonistic doctrines of different religions. Old Chen seemed to have guessed my thoughts: ‘I think that hardly any women understand what religion is. Most are just trying to keep up with other people, afraid to be at a disadvantage.’
Big Li agreed with Old Chen. He pointed out how, especially since religious freedom was declared in 1983, one household could have several altars dedicated to different gods. Most people who prayed only did so to ask for wealth or other benefits. He told us about his neighbours: one grandparent was a Buddhist and the other was a Taoist, so they were constantly arguing. Away from the joss sticks, the Christian granddaughter had set up a cross; the grandparents constantly scolded her for this, saying she was cursing them to an early death. The girl’s mother believed in some form of qigong and the father believed in the God of Wealth. They too were always quarrelling: the woman said that the man’s desire for money had damaged her spiritual standing, and the man accused the woman’s evil influences of attacking his wealth. The little money this family had was spent on religious rituals or holy pictures, but they had grown neither richer nor happier.
Big Li also told us of a woman manager he knew who was said to be very religious. In public speeches, she would hail the Communist Party as China’s only hope; once off the podium, she would preach Buddhism, telling people that they would be rewarded in their next life according to their deeds in this one. When the wind changed, she would spread word of some form of miraculous qigong. Someone in her work unit said that she would wear a Communist Party badge on her coat, fasten a picture of Buddha to her vest and pin a portrait of Great Master Zhang of the Zangmigong sect to her bra. Seeing my look of incredulity, Big Li assured me that this woman was often mentioned in the newspapers. She was a Model Worker every year, and had been selected as an Outstanding Party Member many times.
‘Her secret religiousness can’t be too good in the eyes of the Party,’ I said a touch irreverently.
Old Chen rapped the table and said sternly, ‘Xinran, be careful. Talk like that could lose you your head.’
‘Do we still have to be scared?’
‘Don’t be naive! In the fifties the Party called on us to “let a hundred flowers bloom, let a hundred schools of thought contend”. What happened then? Those who answered the call were all imprisoned or sent to poor mountain villages. Some of them had only expressed their thoughts in their diaries, but they too suffered public criticisms and imprisonment.’
Old Chen was basically a kind man. ‘You shouldn’t talk about faith and religion too much,’ he warned. ‘You’ll only be asking for trouble.’
Over the next few years, I interviewed a number of women about their beliefs and confirmed the fact that they were indeed able to believe in a whole variety of religions at the same time. In Zhengzhou, I met a retired woman cadre who managed to reconcile a devotion to the Communist Party with a strong faith in Fangxiang Gong (Scent and Fragrance qigong) – a kind of qigong where the idea is to cause the master to emit a fragrance by which you inhale his goodness and build up the strength of your body. Before that she had believed in keep-fit exercises and herbal remedies. When I asked her if she believed in Buddhism, she told me to keep my voice down but acknowledged that, yes, she did. The old people in her family had always said that it was better to believe in everything than nothing at all. She also told me that, at the end of the year, she believed in Jesus who was Father Christmas and came to your house to help you. When I expressed surprise that Jesus was the same person as Father Christmas, she told me I was too young to know and asked me not to tell anyone about our conversation: ‘We say, “At home, believe in your own gods and do what you like; outside, believe in the Party and be careful what you do.” But I wouldn’t like anyone to know what I have just said. I don’t want people to give me a hard time again now I’m old.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone that you are my source,’ I reassured her.
The woman looked doubtful. ‘That’s what you say, but in times like these, who can be trusted?’
The practice of qigong was gaining considerable ground in China at that time. People believed entirely in the masters who practised it and I was wary of their power. In 1995, I met a lecturer at Beijing University who was a fervent adherent of a new kind of qigong called Falun Gong – or should I say its founder, Li Hongzhi. Li Hongzhi taught that the world was divided into three levels: the level of the gatekeeper – himself; the level belonging to spirits of unusual virtue – the Christian God, Buddha, etc.; and the third level where ordinary people lived. ‘Master Li is the god who will save humanity from the rubbish dump that this globe has become before it blows up,’ she told me. ‘He doesn’t rely on magic to save people, rather he gives them spiritual exercises to increase the virtues of truth, goodness and tolerance, and make them fit to ascend to Heaven.’ She said that she also believed in the Christian God and seemed troubled when I asked how she could do this if Li Hongzhi taught that, to practise Falun Gong one should have no other gods or spirits in one’s heart.
And what of younger people? I once met two young girls of twenty or so in front of the Taiping South Road Protestant Church in Nanjing. One of them was fashionably dressed, and wore her long glossy hair loose. The other girl was not so well dressed, and wore her hair in a ponytail. I guessed the elegant girl came to church because it was fashionable, and that her friend had come out of curiosity, but I was wrong.
I asked them if they came to church often.
Looking at her friend, the well-dressed girl replied, ‘It’s my first time, I was dragged along by her.’
The girl with the ponytail chipped in, ‘It’s only the second time for me.’
‘Did you come by yourself the first time? Or did someone else bring you?’ I asked.
‘I came with my granny, she’s a Christian,’ she replied.
‘Isn’t your mum one too?’ her friend asked her.
‘Well, my mum says she’s Christian, but she’s never been to church.’
I asked them both, ‘Do you believe in Christianity?’
The well-dressed girl replied, ‘I’ve never believed in it, I’ve just heard it’s really interesting.’
‘What do you mean by “interesting”?’ I probed.
‘So many people in the world believe in Jesus and Christianity, I think there must be something in it.’
‘Well, there are many people in the world who believe in Islam and Buddhism, what about them?’ I asked.
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
Her friend with the ponytail said, ‘Anyway, women have to believe in something when they get to forty.’
I was astonished at this reasoning. ‘Oh? Why?’
‘Look at the people praying in the churches and lighting joss sticks in the temples. They’re all middle-aged women.’
‘What d
o you think is the reason for this?’
The well-dressed girl cut in cryptically, ‘Men labour hard for money, women labour hard because that’s their fate.’
Her friend said, ‘My granny says she didn’t believe in God when she was young, but after she started to do so, many things didn’t worry her the way they used to. And my mum says that after she started believing in God she stopped fighting with my dad. It’s true, they used to quarrel fiercely, but now if my dad loses his temper, my mum goes up to the cross to pray, and my dad keeps quiet.’
‘Women can’t achieve anything big, anyway. Praying to some god is always better than playing mah-jong,’ said the well-dressed girl.
I was amazed by her flippant remark. ‘Can playing mah-jong and religion be spoken of in the same breath?’
The girl with the ponytail said, ‘It’s not a question of that. My mum says people who don’t believe in anything live life one day at a time. If they had money they could have a good time, but they don’t have enough to travel, or even to go out for a drink. So they stay at home and play mah-jong. At least they might win a bit of money.’
‘What about religious women?’ I asked.
‘People who believe in a religion are different,’ said the well-dressed girl, tossing her head.
Her friend confirmed this. ‘Very different. Religious women read the scriptures, attend religious activities and help other people out.’
‘So, once you turn forty, will you believe in a religion?’ I asked them both.
The well-dressed girl shrugged non-committally, but her friend replied firmly, ‘If I’m rich, I won’t believe. If I’m still this poor, I’ll believe.’
‘So what religion are you going to believe in?’ I asked.
‘That’ll depend on what religion is in fashion then,’ she replied.
The girls left me then, and I stood agape outside the church.
7
The Woman Who Loved Women
My colleagues had a saying: ‘Journalists get more and more timid over time.’ As I gained experience of how broadcasting worked and tried to push the boundaries of my programme, I began to understand what they meant by this. At any moment it was possible for a journalist to make a mistake that would endanger their career, if not their freedom. They lived within a carefully circumscribed set of rules which, if broken, entailed serious consequences. The first time I presented a radio programme, my supervisor looked so anxious I thought he was about to faint. It was only later, when I became a department head myself, that I discovered how, under Chinese radio and broadcasting regulations, if a broadcast was cut off for more than thirty seconds, the person in charge of that shift would have his or her name circulated throughout the country – a disciplinary action that could seriously affect future promotion. Even the smallest mistakes could mean a reduction in that month’s bonus (which was a lot more than the salary); big mistakes often led to demotion, if not dismissal.
Two or three times a week the journalists at the broadcasting station had to attend a political study class. The sessions covered Deng Xiaoping’s views on the policy of Reform and Opening Up and Jiang Zemin’s theory of politics serving the economy. The principles and political significance of the news were drummed into us over and over again, and no session was complete without some condemnation of colleagues for various transgressions: not announcing leaders’ names in the right hierarchical order on a programme, failing to grasp the essentials of Party propaganda in a commentary, lack of respect for one’s elders, non-disclosure of a love affair to the Party, behaving with ‘impropriety’; all these and other such faults were criticised. During these sessions, I felt as if China was still in the grip of the Cultural Revolution: politics still ruling every aspect of daily life, with certain groups of people subjected to censure and judgement so that others felt they were achieving something.
I found it very difficult to retain all this political information in my head, but made sure that I frequently reminded myself of the most important precept: ‘The Party leads in everything.’ The time came when my understanding of this principle was put to the test.
The success of my programme had brought me considerable acclaim. People were calling me the first female presenter to ‘lift the veil’ of Chinese women, the first women’s issues journalist to delve into the true reality of their lives. The radio station had promoted me and I had received a considerable amount of financial sponsorship. I had also, finally, been able to make a ‘hotline’ programme and take listeners calls on air.
All live-broadcasting studios consisted of two rooms, one containing the presenter’s broadcasting console, music and notes, the other a control room. Calls to my hotline came via the broadcast controller, who operated the time delay mechanism. This gave her about ten seconds to decide if a call was unsuitable to be broadcast and to cut if off without the listeners realising.
One evening, I was on the point of winding down my programme with some gentle music – which I usually did for about ten minutes at the end – when I took one last call:
‘Xinran, hello, I’m calling from Ma’anshan. Thank you for your programme. It gives me a lot to think about, and helps me and many other women. Today I’d like to ask you what you think of homosexuality. Why do so many people discriminate against homosexual people? Why has China made homosexuality illegal? Why don’t people understand that homosexuals have the same rights and choices in life as anyone else? . . .’
As the caller continued with her stream of questions, I broke into a cold sweat. Homosexuality was a forbidden subject under media regulations; I wondered desperately why the controller had not cut the call off at once.
There was no way that I could avoid answering this question: thousands of people were waiting for my answer and I couldn’t let them know that it was considered a forbidden subject. Nor could I say that time was running out: there were ten minutes of the programme left. I turned some music up while I desperately went through everything I had ever read about homosexuality and tried to think of a way that I could deal with the subject diplomatically. The woman had just asked a penetrating question, which must have lingered in listeners’ minds:
‘Homosexuality has its own history, from ancient Rome in the West and the Tang and Song dynasties in China, until today. There are philosophical arguments that state that whatever exists does so for a reason, so why is homosexuality considered unreasonable in China?’
At that moment I saw through the glass partition the controller answer the internal telephone. She blanched and immediately cut the caller off mid sentence, regardless of the strict rule against doing this. Seconds later, the duty director burst into the control room, and said to me through the intercom, ‘Be careful, Xinran!’
I let the music play on for more than a minute before I turned to the microphone. ‘Good evening, friends by the radio, you’re listening to Words on the Night Breeze. My name is Xinran, and I’m discussing live the world of women with you. From ten to twelve every night, you can tune in to women’s stories, listen to their hearts and learn about their lives.’ I did my best to fill airtime while I ordered my thoughts.
‘Just now, we took a call from a listener who knows a great deal about society and history, and understands the experiences of a group of women with an unconventional lifestyle.
‘To the best of my knowledge, homosexuality is, as the caller said, not just the product of one modern society: there are records of it in Western and Eastern history. It is said that, during the wars of conquest in ancient Rome, the rulers even encouraged their soldiers to engage in homosexuality. Then, however, it was perhaps more a question of the utility of homosexuality, rather than their approval of it. Homosexual relations helped the soldiers cope with the war and the longing for their families. In a cruel twist, the emotional attachments formed between the soldiers gave them additional impetus to avenge dead or wounded lovers.
‘In China, homosexuality was not confined to the Tang and Song; there are records of it as ear
ly as the North Wei dynasty. These records all stem from the imperial court. But homosexuality has never dominated society – perhaps because mankind has a natural need for the love between a man and a woman, and a need to procreate. As the wise men and sages of classical China said, “Everything competes for its place, and Fate chooses.”
‘We all agree that everybody has the right to choose their lifestyle, and a right to their sexual needs. However, humanity is constantly in a state of transition. All countries, regions and ethnic groups are journeying towards the future of mankind as best they can, in search of the perfect system. None of us can yet reach a final conclusion about the rights and wrongs of this journey and, until we have reached perfection, we need guidance. We also need tolerance and understanding.
‘I don’t think heredity alone makes homosexuality, nor do I believe that the family environment can be solely responsible. Curiosity is even less credible as a single reason for homosexuality. I believe its sources are many and varied. We all have different experiences of life, and we make similar but different choices. Recognising difference means that we should not expect others to agree with our opinions on homosexuality, for such expectations can lead to prejudice of another kind.
‘To our homosexual friends who have experienced prejudice, I would like to say “Sorry” on behalf of the careless people you have encountered. We all need understanding in this world.’
I turned the volume of the music up, switched off the microphone and took a deep breath. Suddenly, I realised that the control room on the other side of the glass partition was crowded with the most senior staff in the station. The station head and the director of programming rushed into the studio, grasped my hands and shook them vigorously.
‘Thank you, thank you, Xinran! You replied very, very well!’ The station head’s palms were wet with perspiration.
