Factory Girl

by Josanne La Valley

  “‘I am far from my homeland and the sky is gray.’” I say softly to myself the words that well in my heart, words taught to me by my father. “‘The moon is good, the sun is good, to be a wanderer is bad.’” A small voice joins me from the seat in back, and I know it is Zuwida. It surprises me that she is the one who knows our poetry. “‘I am a wanderer, the prince of wanderers. I cannot bear this wandering, my face is sallow,’” we finish together. Everyone listens. An unnatural stillness settles over us.

  Ushi turns. Stares. She cannot know the meaning of our Uyghur Muqam, our songs and poems, but it’s obvious she didn’t like the private moment that just passed among us.

  “Oh,” Hawa says, her voice high and little-girlish as she leans toward Ushi. “It’s all so different here. Where are we? We . . . were wondering.”

  That is not what we were doing, but it’s a good fake. The road winds along a narrow river canyon, and walls of solid rock engulf us.

  Ushi looks at Hawa and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, it’s different,” she says. “If we can get there, we’re going to climb the mountain up ahead and go down the other side.” She rolls her eyes again, shrugs, and turns to face the front.

  She’s right to wonder “if we can get there.” The road is nothing like our sandy, poplar-lined roads back home—​slow, reliable, and just fine for ambling donkey carts. Here the van struggles along a track of dirt and stones. We come to a stream, and the driver plunges in and by some miracle gets us to the other side. The road keeps winding and we keep crisscrossing the riverbed. Ushi is no longer paying any attention to us. She spews out more curse words than I’ve ever heard.

  Then the road climbs the mountain. We zigzag back and forth, up and up. Too often, the window on my side looks out over the huge emptiness that lies below—​the void we’ll plunge into if our van has another blowout—​and my stomach feels hollow.

  I clutch the white jade in my hands. Need its comfort. Need Ahmat to keep me safe. Wait to be overcome by loneliness so I can’t think about plunging over the cliff. It doesn’t work. My breath is short. I push against the back of the seat, afraid to move. Afraid to open my eyes. “Are you all right?” Mikray asks, and I can’t answer. I want to crawl on the floor, to cling to something safe, and all I have to cling to is my necklace.

  I squeeze my eyes more tightly shut and make a foolish plea to Ahmat to rescue me as we keep going up the narrow switchbacks that climb the embankments. What is it I fear most? Falling from this great height—​or being on the other side of the mountain?

  We stop. I force my eyes open. This spot seems safe. We’ve cut through a pass, and there is a low rock outcropping on the abyss side of the road to keep us from plunging over.

  “Everyone out. Stretch. Do whatever you have to. You may have noticed there are no towns or WCs along this route,” Ushi says.

  We pile out. The thought of seeing Ushi squatting and peeing on the side of the road helps me forget that my legs feel shaky and my breath comes in shallow pants. My head swims when I look out into space. I go quickly to the mound of rocks—​lean into it.

  There’s commotion near the van. “What is it now, Mouse? You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?” Ushi says as she bears down on Zuwida.

  I see Mikray holding back, shooting looks of hate at Ushi. Adile is with Zuwida, and I must be there too. Focus, I tell myself. Look only at Zuwida. And I do it; I walk to her. The drop into the abyss is on the other side of the van.

  Zuwida rubs her forehead; her nose is bleeding. “Got a little headache, right? Nosebleed?” Ushi says, shoving some tissues at her. “It happens. We’re up about four thousand meters. You’ll be okay when we come down.

  “Do whatever you have to, everyone. Let’s get on our way.” Ushi walks to the other side of the van. She’ll probably squat there. I have no desire to watch her. I want only to push her off the cliff.

  We’ve encountered just one vehicle on this road so far, a truck carrying a load of sheep in the other direction, so we don’t fear being seen. Even so, we form our protective circle and take turns relieving ourselves, two at a time.

  We’re all shivering. It’s colder up here, but I don’t care. The clean, pure smell of the air refreshes my mind—​perhaps too much. As I massage my arms to keep warm, the soft feel of my blouse stirs memories I can’t allow myself to have. We’re herded back into the van, and I think of keeping my eyes focused on the ground, and of the new seat arrangements. Adile will sit in back with Zuwida, and I will be in the middle of my row, away from the windows.

  I sit next to Gulnar, and her embroidery helps me over the mountain. She brings the cloth from her pocket. The needle is threaded with pink floss, and I see she is adding flowers to the brown stems and green leaves she has already sewn, flowers that grow along the long spikes at the branch tips. Her needle moves in and out of the cloth; now she wraps thread around the needle and adds the coils in some magical way so that it looks as if the flower petal is real, not flat but growing upward, out from the stem. She pulls another thread from her pocket, bites off the length she needs, rethreads her needle, and keeps working. The floss is deeper pink in color this time. I watch as a full, four-petaled, rose-pink flower rises from the stem. Gulnar is creating a tamarisk bush, one of the few plants that can survive in the desert, on her cloth.

  I watch her with every fiber of my body, and even so, I know when we come too close to the edge. Gulnar’s fingers tighten; her needle moves more slowly. The chatter—​Uyghur behind me, Mandarin in front—​has a slower pace, as if everyone is holding back breath.

  We make it safely down the mountain. Ushi rewards us with water and more snacks of dried peas and spicy nuts as we drive through bleak and rocky mountain valleys. We pass a lake; a pack of camels nearby munch on something that must sustain them. Then, up ahead, I see a land of white—​the air, the ground, everything is white, and it’s not snow.

  Chalky white dust is blowing in and settling on us. “Close your windows,” Ushi says, and we obey. She pulls a mask from her bag to cover her nose and mouth, so it must really be bad. She hands a mask to the driver but offers none to us. Apparently Uyghurs do not require protection.

  “What is happening?” Hawa asks.

  “Mining. Grinding up rock.”

  We can see that. A ghostly white factory looms in the distance; huge machines crawl around in the white cloud, shoveling mounds of something white into small hills; trucks carry away large white bags in both directions, over the mountain and to wherever the road ahead leads. We drive into a tiny town and I see a sign: SHIMIANKUANG. It takes me a while, but I figure it out. Kuang means mine; shi mian could mean asbestos. We’re driving through an asbestos mine. The Chinese don’t even try to hide it!

  We already have asbestos dust covering us, and more seeps in through the windows, even though they’re closed. It might not kill us, but I know that breathing it in is bad. I rip a small piece of paper from the notebook I carry, write asbestos on it, and hand it to Gulnar, who quickly passes it on to the others. I untie my scarf and wrap it over my nose and mouth.

  The note comes back to me and I pass it forward. If they haven’t guessed, the three unscarved girls now know they’re breathing asbestos. They, like the rest of us, are probably aware of what that means. Several men from Hotan were sent to work in the mines and returned with lung disease; two of them died. Word spread throughout our townships.

  Mercifully, after a few kilometers we drive out of the mine to a paved road taking us through a mostly barren, flat valley. No one comments on the landscape anymore; oil derricks are of little interest. But when a town of some size appears, the hope that we might actually stop and get out of the van rouses us.

  “Is this where we spend the night?” Mikray speaks loudly enough so she’s sure Ushi hears her over honking horns and noisy motorcycles. The sun, the shadows tell us it’s nearly nightfall—​we’ve been traveling since early morning.

  Ushi’s laugh is repulsive. I have never had to know s
uch loathing as I feel for this woman right now.

  “Don’t you wish,” Ushi says. “We’ll stop for the stinking toilet in the bus station. A few hours after that, you’ll be on a train. That’s lots of fun too.” She looks directly at Mikray—​a hard, cold look. Mikray is not wise; she should keep quiet. Ushi won’t forget.

  A filthy pit toilet. Then we’re each handed a container of chicken-flavored instant noodles. In the middle of the night our luggage is thrown down to us and we’re escorted from the van into the hard-seat car of train number T266. We don’t know where we’re going. Ushi has our tickets.

  Nine

  STEPPING INTO THE TRAIN is exciting. I’ve never ridden on a train. That seems true for many of us. We eagerly crowd aboard with the other passengers, only to find the seats already full and people standing in the aisles. Ushi sweeps by us, a man in uniform in tow. They yank people from their seats and push us into them.

  “Why are you doing that? They were here first,” Mikray says, pushing past everyone to get to Ushi.

  “We paid for these seats. They paid for standing room. Now sit down and shut up,” Ushi says, shoving Mikray into the empty seat next to the one where she’s already put me.

  “I’m sorry,” Mikray says to the Chinese woman whose seat she has taken.

  “It’s all right,” the woman says, smiling at Mikray. “I’ve been enjoying your seat for many hours. It’s your turn.”

  Again, I wonder about myself. Who am I? Who is Mikray? Why didn’t I say something to the woman whose seat I took? It would be awful to have to stand or squat in the aisle of a train because you can’t afford a regular ticket. I’m grateful to have a seat, even though it’s hard, with a high, straight back. Barely padded. I need sleep.

  I find odd amusement in the thought that Ushi could have bought us standing room and just one hard seat for herself. I see her giving money to the man in uniform. I nudge Mikray and point behind us to make sure she sees it too. Then Ushi makes her way down the aisle. “It’s a long trip,” she says. “Don’t leave these seats. I’ll know if you do. You’re being watched.”

  Admonishments delivered, Ushi disappears through the door at the end of our car.

  “Great! The conductor spies on us while Ushi spends the night in the sleeper car.” Mikray spits the words out. “Why’d she bother to pay him? None of us has enough money to get off the train and disappear—​unless that one does.” She points to Hawa, sitting across the aisle from us with the other two. They’re on the three-seats-for-three-people side of the car. Mikray and I are on the other side, the two-seats-for-two-people side. I’m by the window, so Mikray and Hawa are separated only by the two Chinese women standing in the aisle.

  “Why do you dislike Hawa? Do you know her?” The train is noisy. I can ask questions without anyone overhearing.

  “Her name is Hawargul. I used to go to school with her. I don’t know why she’s here. Her father could have paid the fine to keep her off the list. She seemed to have everything she wanted.” Mikray shrugs, lowers her head. I know there’s more to tell.

  “What else?” I ask.

  “She and her friends hung out at the daytime disco clubs, dressed in their little short skirts, trying to look French or American. They didn’t want to be Chinese, but they tried hard not to be Uyghur. I, on the other hand, made certain everyone knew I was Uyghur and I was proud of it. We had a standoff. . . . It’s complicated,” Mikray says as I watch her lips tighten, her cheekbones rise up almost to her narrowed eyes. Her face is striking. Strong beneath the orange and blue flowered scarf that she wears drawn tightly across her forehead.

  “You are strong and powerful, Mikray. And fierce. You’re a hard person to like, but I like you. I admire you.”

  She bites her lips. Her face softens. Her eyes cloud quickly with tears.

  “Thank you,” she whispers. She closes her eyes and turns away.

  I call upon a cherished remembrance as I try to go to sleep. I’m stretched out on my sleeping platform with my sister, Aygul, at my side, Mother and Father close by. It’s a safe, quiet place that doesn’t stink of unwashed passengers, rotting food, and a smelly toilet. In reality I squeeze myself into a tight ball, my knees under my chin, my arms wrapped around my legs. Mikray does the same, and we lean back to back for support. I drift into a fitful sleep until the unforgiving stiffness of the seat leaves me numb and I have to shift position—​or is it a voice that wakes me? Adile is shaking me. Shaking Mikray. She and Zuwida are sitting behind us, and Zuwida is sick. Nauseous. Headache. She does not feel better after coming down from the mountain as Ushi said she would. She feels worse.

  By now the Chinese women sitting on their luggage in the aisle show concern. I explain in Mandarin what’s happening. They know about mountain sickness. One woman touches her forehead to Zuwida’s, takes her pulse. She gives Zuwida a pill. We have no comfort to offer; we have to trust that their remedy is sensible.

  “That will help her headache. I’ll fix a tea that will bring sleep,” the woman says. “She’s a frail child, isn’t she?”

  I really see Zuwida for the first time. The scarf she wears as a kind of shroud around her head and shoulders has been loosened, revealing the thinness of her little round face, the fragility of her neck and shoulders. I think she must have a sad story to tell of why she’s here.

  Night becomes day, and still we speed through a mostly barren landscape. A few yak herders watch over large, shaggy-haired oxen, which roam with their heads down, foraging for food. It’s the reverse inside the train. Ushi, the ox-named one, brings us something to eat—​another container of chicken-flavored noodles and water—​then leaves for the comfort of her sleeper car.

  Midmorning, things begin to change. The Chinese women tell us we’re coming into the city of Xining, where they will be getting off the train. They are worried about Zuwida. They leave us with two kinds of tea that we are to keep giving her, one for the sickness, the other to help her sleep; they leave a thermos, which is still half-filled with hot water. Even though we are now in a valley with mountains around us, we are quite high up, they say, on the outermost edge of the Tibetan plateau. She will need the medicine in the teas.

  Saying goodbye is difficult. Their gentleness and kindness have sustained us through the night. We don’t care that they are Chinese, that they don’t know our language.

  It is painful to see the longing in Zuwida’s eyes as they embrace her and bid her a safe journey.

  Ten

  TWENTY-TWO AND A HALF hours after leaving Xining, we arrive in Wuhan. I have long since lost sense of day or night, but even as we trudge behind Ushi, making our way through crowds of people and a sickly gray smog, I know it’s morning.

  “You’ll wait here,” Ushi says, ushering us into a hall with rows and rows of hard gray seats, not unlike the ones we just left. None of the seats are empty, but we don’t need more sitting. Our eyes follow Ushi until she is swallowed up in the crowds. Then we look at one another.

  “Wuhan is the capital of Hubei Province.” I say this in Mandarin, mimicking a teacher. “It is the most populous city in central China. It has a population of over ten million people.” By now Mikray, Adile, and the others have joined in. We’ve all been forced to memorize these words and recite them in civics classes since we were young children.

  We laugh, not because it is funny. I think we can’t believe we’re really here, alone in this huge city so distant from life in our desert oasis. Maybe we laugh because we’re dirty and sweaty and tired and hungry, and to stand here and scream would take too much energy.

  Ushi returns. We struggle to follow her, pushing and shoving like everyone else to make our way through the huge crowds until we come to the back of the station. We’re marched to a delivery truck with the words HUBEI WORK WEAR CO. painted on the side. The van is not new and shiny, but the lettering is bright blue and unscratched. The driver approaches us. He bows his head. He smiles. “Welcome,” he says in a language that is not quite Mandari
n, and I remember that many here speak a Sichuan dialect. “Welcome to the Hubei Work Wear Company,” he says, and bows again. I am pleased that I can understand him and start to acknowledge his welcome, but he is going to the back of the truck and opening the doors, gesturing for us to enter. We are to be delivered to our factory like common work wear.

  There are no seats, but the floor where we are to squat is relatively clean. He closes the doors, sealing us into the stifling hot, airless cargo box. A bit of light filters in through the two small windows in the back doors. We’re thrown off balance as the truck picks up speed and careens into the horn-honking, jam-packed roadway that leads to and from the station.

  Mikray gets up, lurches to the doors. “We should have disappeared in the train station,” she says. “There are places to hide in a city with ten million people.” She swipes her hands over the doors. “There are no handles. We’ve been locked in like prisoners. It’s pretty clear we’re not being taken to a classy factory. We’re going to be slaves, forced to do jobs nobody else wants.” She turns, glares at us. “They can’t do this. Treat us like animals. We have to—”

  Zuwida starts coughing, a dry, hacking cough she can’t stop, and Mikray ends her outburst. We turn our attention to Zuwida. We’ve come down from the high altitudes—​why isn’t she better? I crawl over to her. Adile holds her hand and I rub her back with gentle strokes. “We’ve run out of hot water,” I say. “Maybe we can get some for you soon.”

  “What good will that do?” Mikray kneels in front of Zuwida too. “We’ve run out of the teas. Where will we get more?” She tries to restrain her voice, but Zuwida has heard. She reaches her hand out to Mikray.