My life on the road

Life of a Chinese journalist, by Jiang Weiping Reporters Without Borders is presenting a series of four articles by Chinese journalist Jiang Weiping recounting his career as an investigative reporter from the time he started out as a journalist in the 1980s to his arrest in 2000 and his departure for exile in Canada this year. “Jiang is a courageous and exemplary journalist who did not think twice about the dangers he was running when he denounced corruption at the highest levels in the Communist Party of China,” Reporters Without Borders said. “It is thanks to committed journalism like his that the Chinese public can learn about the all-powerful party’s abuses and press freedom will be able to evolve in China.” Jiang achieved recognition in the course of his long career, which he began by working for the state news agency Xinhua. In the early 1990s, he became northeast China bureau chief for the Hong Kong-based newspaper Wen Wei Po (香港文匯報). He wrote a series of articles on corruption in the party for the Hong Kong-based magazine Frontline (前哨). Around this time he also started working for Hong Kong magazine. He was arrested in the northeastern province of Dalian in December 2000 and was sentenced in May 2001 to eight years in prison on charges of endangering state security and divulging state secrets. He was finally released in 2006 after serving six years of his sentence. In February 2009, he obtained political asylum in Canada, where he now lives with his wife in Toronto and continues working as a freelance journalist and calligraphist. see Part 2 -------- Part 3: My life on the road I had been separated from the world for more than five years. My brothers and sisters were delighted to be able to take me back home. A big meal was prepared at midday to celebrate my return. Then a relative who had come from Liaoning took me to Qiaoshangong cemetery in the Dalian suburbs, where my father had been buried six years earlier. I once again saw his impressive headstone. The inscriptions had hardly aged but the trees beside the cemetery were now an impressive forest. My mutterings were drowned out by the icy January wind. I had survived. As I was leaving the cemetery I realised I had lived for more than half a century. But where was I supposed to go and live now? I felt very depressed as I lay on my bed. My wife had left a family photo opposite the bed. The sight of it released a flood of memories. The National Security Bureau had forbidden me to leave China for three years. I was virtually destitute. I needed to earn a living, but how? It was then that someone knocked on the door. I found pretty girl at the door. I had not seen a woman for five years and I must say I was shaken by the sight. The young girl said she worked for an electricity company. “You wife went abroad three years ago,” she said. “There is an electricity bill of more than 7,000 yuan to pay. With bank charges, it comes to more 10,000 yuan.” I showed her the paper certifying that I had just been released from prison. On seeing it, she dropped the bill and fled, shouting: “A criminal, a criminal… Too bad, forget it.” I realised that any attempt to explain would be pointless. After being released from a reeducation camp, society had completely abandoned me. I had no work, no social security and no friends. In order to keep me under surveillance, National Security Bureau officials paid more than 100,000 yuan just to be able to live in the former premises of the Zhuangjayuan Hotel, located opposite my home. Wang Fuquan, Lu Donghui and those who had followed my case also came to Community 93, where I lived, and threatened employees who worked there, ordering them to keep a watch on me and inventing a story about how I was an American secret agent who had just served his sentence and if I revealed anything to them, they would be caught. As a result, the community’s employees and neighbours avoided me. I was closely watched during the first few months. I was followed every time I went out, sometimes by as many as four people. They deliberately caused an accident once but fortunately I emerged unscathed. I could not talk freely by phone with my wife and daughter because my phone was tapped. I was constantly on guard. The situation was absurd: instead of helping me financially or finding a job for me, the government preferred to invest in keeping me under surveillance. I had just got out of one prison but now I was thrashing about in an even bigger prison like the Monkey King who could not escape from Buddha’s hand. I lived in fear night and day. No one could come to my aid. I had to find work. It so happened that I had studied calligraphy at the age of 10. So I decided to set up a calligraphy gallery. I wrote to Li Jialian, Wang Jianlin and Sun Yinhuan – CEOs I had written stories about when I was a journalist – requesting their help. In the end, it was only Sun Yinhuan, the head of the Dalian Yida group, who was understanding. He gave me 20,000 yuan. I also contacted the editor of Vanguard, Liu Dawen, who gave me 20,000 Hong Kong dollars. Then I sold antiques from a stall in Dalian and Tianjin, doing it for a little more than six months, earning just enough to repay the rent and the running costs. As I get on with people easily and was beginning to reestablish contact with old friends, earning money was not my primary concern and I gave away most of the works of calligraphy in my gallery. So it was no surprise that my financial situation began to deteriorate rapidly. Fortunately, Zhang Qing, a very well-off TV series actor, came to my aid and got me two Xiali cars. Until then, I had not known how to thank Sun Xuewen, the prison guard who forwarded my letters to my wife in 2001. So I gave him one of these cars. Among those who also helped me in a disinterested manner were Jing Hong, Yang Xiaodong, Lu Yushun and Wu Ning, Wang Jinli, Li Zhixin, Wang Xiang and above all Li Mu and my college professor, Wang Zhixin. I would also like to thank the famous Shanghai-based human rights lawyer Yan Yiming, Ma Anshan’s boss Wang Yanan and all those who bought my calligraphies. Through Asia Weekly reporter Wang Jianmin, the Hong Kong artist Zhang Yun, who is more than 80 years old, sent me a gift of 3,000 yuan and a collection of poems that I will never forget because of the way they condemned the injustice of my imprisonment. An old gentleman told me that journalist Zhang Taiyan of Suzhou Journal did prison time in 1904 and that price of his calligraphies were now very high. “But it is very regrettable and unfair that, because of the Communist Party of China, no one can know the value of your works,” he added. So I sent my works to Luan Yuemin of Dalian Daily, Mary of Xinshang Journal and Li Mingming of Dalian Evening News, who I had known for a long time. They had all become editors or had key positions in their newspapers and I was disappointed that none of them dared publish anything about my calligraphies. I was reduced to applying for a job with company based in Dalian that sold sports goods and I was hired as the director’s assistant. But, at Bo Xilai’s behest, a certain Mr. Liu, the head of the local tax department, sent agents to check the tax returns. Under pressure, I had to resign. I then got a job with a Japanese company but before I had officially begun, a tax department agent came looking for me. The company than had to move to Liaoyang and I offered by resignation. By the start of 2006, I could no longer live in Dalian. That is when I began wandering all over China, earning my living by means of my calligraphies. I accepted an invitation from Jiateng Longze, the Japanese head of the Shanghai bureau of the newspaper Dumai. I twice went to Shanghai and stayed with Jiateng, who had a place in Xintiandi, Shanghai. It was if we were destined to meet. His assistant, Wang Zhencong of Asia Weekly, knew that I had opened a calligraphy gallery in Dalian and had managed by telephone to get the registration number of my permit from the Office of the Department of Commerce. Finally, Jiateng had been able to make an appointment with me. But Jianteng’s plane was delayed by fog and he arrived two days late. I sent a student I knew to collect him by car. A very curious thing occurred on the way back. There was an accident as they were crossing a viaduct. I think I was the intended target of that accident. It was only by luck that my student was not injured. My meeting with Jiateng was watched by local representatives of the Bureau of National Public Security. Fortunately, the article that was published was very restrained and limited itself to referring to my life as a calligrapher. But two agents sent me a very serious warning signal. One midday in Dalian, near Nanguanling, I was struck violently by the mirror of a jeep driven by two suspicious-looking individuals wearing leather jackets. I reported these intimidation attempts to Wang Jianmin, who wrote about them for Asia Weekly in Hong Kong. Thereafter, there were virtually no more incidents of that nature. Jiateng, who often went to Shanghai, was very familiar with Chinese culture and really like the fact that I was a calligrapher. He introduced me to lots of Japanese clients in Shanghai. He invited me to install my workshop in his home and, above all, he helped me financially. Thanks to him, I sold lots of my calligraphies and I earned enough to cover my basic outgoings. I remembered the people who helped me in prison and I sent one a well-known brand of leather bag. As I left the post office, I was overwhelmed by a mixture of relief and happiness. My calligraphies were soon being displayed in the Old Jinjiang Hotel’s Japanese restaurant and in Chuanyi restaurant under the Tianyao bridge. Jiateng used the 2008 Chinese New Year to organise my first calligraphy exhibition, which had destiny as its theme. It was a success and received positive reviews in the newspaper Dumai and in many other media. Lots of Japanese ordered my calligraphies. At the same time, Liu Dawen, who had always supported me, continued to give me free advertising in the magazine Vanguard, which increased my clientele. I finally had a regular income. I was living very well but I could not settle for calligraphy because I was itching to go back to journalism. So I established new contacts. In Zhuhai, I met a journalist called Sun who had a senior position with the newspaper Dagong. She asked me to be her consultant. Although it was badly paid and I had to use a pseudonym, it meant working in Dalian again. Like a fish returning to the ocean, I felt as if I was being reborn. I attended two meetings of the Chinese People's Political Consultative Conference and, with her, interviewed many officials and heads of companies. I made lots of new friends and started to get reestablished in society. I realised that China was now even richer than before I went to prison but also, to my great disappointment, more corrupt. And freedom of expression had regressed even further. For example, Sun’s articles had to constantly flatter the people she mentioned and to sing the government’s praises. And her articles were sometimes censored. She told me she was under a lot of pressure because of the quantity of propaganda the newspaper had to put out. I do not know if it was because my phone was still tapped but the intelligence services tracked me down again. The person who had offered me the job through my friends told me: “My superiors have done an investigation. You can no longer be a journalist. You must go back to being a calligrapher. I was not surprised. It was bound to have happened sooner or later, given that the news media are a priority surveillance target for the party’s agents. A journalist who has been jailed for exposing a case of corruption within the party cannot be allowed to reenter official circles. I could have discovered other cases of corruption. So I left Zhuhai and continued to wander. Fortunately, my daughter Jiang Xiaoyuan was on the other side of the Pacific Ocean and I was used to my solitude and my freedom. My nature is entirely suited to the life of a tramp. But without a passport, I was trapped in China. It is not easy being a tramp. I lived in the dormitories of a Nike factory in Qingyuan, in Guangdong province. The director, a Taiwanese who collected calligraphy, was very tolerant and trusting towards me. He strongly advised me against writing about corruption, warning that it could cost me my life. I could not help laughing as I listened. I then went to Hainan Island, Dongguan, Shenzhen, Guangzhou and Fanyu. In Sanya, on Hainan Island, I made a pilgrimage to see Guanyin (a Buddhist deity) and sold a calligraphy to pay for my three days in a taxi. In Dongguan, I sold a calligraphy to pay to stay in a hotel. In Guangzhou, I sold two calligraphies for six meals in a Korean restaurant. I quickly realised that the Chinese of southern China love calligraphy. With a brush and ink, I was not going to die of hunger there. I dubbed this trip around the south as “The Pilgrimages of a Wandering Calligrapher.” In Shenzhen, I again saw my friend of 30 years, the writer Liu Yuanju, and the journalist Xiao Qiu, who was still able to stand at 91. I also had the chance to see Wang Jianmin, who I had not seen for years. He told me that, on 4 December 2000, after my arrest, he wrote an article for Asia Weekly that saved my life. We had not seen each other for so many years. A former bachelor, my friend was now married to a very sweet woman and was the father of two pretty kids. God has rewarded him, I said to myself. I gave him calligraphies of poems I had written in prison. He was very moved, and gave me money to cover my everyday expenses, commenting that the past few years had not been easy for me. Liu Dawen Kong was waiting for me to visit him in Hong Kong, but the Public Security Bureau refused to issue me a passport. All I could do was phone him before continuing my wanderings. I travelled the four corners of China for three years. Whether in Yang Liuqing (in Tianjin), in Sanya, at the borders of Heilongjiang province in Hulin, on Wangfujing Avenue in Beijing, at the foot of Mount Tai or in the Tianya Delta – a trail of my calligraphies was left everywhere. I knew that in 2009 I would recover my civic rights and get a passport, and that sooner or later I would be able to leave China. So I had to be patient. I wrote my memoires, which came to more than 500,000 words. There was another book entitled “My return from the land of the dead,” about by life after leaving prison. I said I just did large calligraphies, never small ones. To my surprise, lots of people believed me, especially in early February after the exhibition. I even succeeded in deceiving the party’s agents. In reality, I had succeeded in putting into practice a phrase of Confucius I had read in prison: “One must be calm before making a move.” I am now in a free world where I am revising my biography. At the same time, I continue to write for Vanguard and Reform. I no longer work fulltime for any newspaper but I have become a free journalist even if I have yet to be recognised as one. At the age of 54, I am conscious of divine will and I have finally realised my dream. To see the English and French subtitled interview: