Off to a Meeting
Original text (原文) by Lai Ho
“Time is not on my side, so I fear I won’t make the train.” This is how my heart felt, but my feet kept instinctually running faster. I sprinted into the station house, which was packed with people. I had to push through a large crowd to make it to the ticket window. I bought my ticket and went to the gate but it was not open yet. A big crowd of people were being held up by a station attendant. I joined the line at the back with the other latecomers and waited for my ticket to get punched. I consider myself an educated man who does not need to fight for a seat or jostle to the front of the line. I can simply wait my turn and cause no problems. I stood with my feet planted firmly on the ground–three minutes til departure. No worries, from my place in line I could see the rest of the platform quite well, which made for great people watching. The incense burners 1 caught my attention. They had knapsacks slung over their backs carrying incense, joss paper, and a few small flags sticking out. Each flag had a small bell, the metallic din evangelized both their belief and their suffering.
The incense burners seemed to me to be field workers. Most of them had leathery skin hardened by daily toil, their bodies lean and lacking fat. Their faces had a gleam of resistance, and an unquantifiable richness. They are dutiful slaves, after all–the overlooked element upon which the rest of society feasts. Their lives are full of suffering, leaving them with no other option but to pray to lifeless dolls, pleading for artificial comfort. And society continues raining down on them, adding to their burden. This thought filled me with anger and hatred for society, and further strengthened my resolve to attend this meeting.
My heart felt abuzz and I, surprising the other people waiting in line, grabbed the handrail and jumped onboard. There were still plenty of empty seats, because most of the incense burners would board the southbound train and transfer at BeiGang, but I was headed north.
I plopped down at a window seat, and gazed out at the passing scenery. But I was thinking about faroff things. I wondered which topics we would discuss. Opposing superstitions? I guess this would be considered a slogan of the past. Ah, the past. Just because something belongs to the past does not mean it has been resolved. Which of the many slogans I have memorized are now reality? Look at superstitions: not only have they not been eradicated, but the people glom onto them more than ever. Ah, it’s this kind of past that I don’t dare think about. Superstitions, after all, give the people some kind of comfort. I felt lost. I was in a daze. My heart swelled with strange, indifferent grief. How was my journey to this meeting different from the incense burners’ pilgrimage to BeiGang?
“Hey! Look! XX association held a meeting at XX.”
The guy who had said this was Japanese. He was talking to a Taiwanese guy.
“Ha! At XX, you say? I bet Cai spoke. He certainly is good at blowing hot air.”
“What do you think the meeting was about?”
“I don’t really know. I heard that they’re demanding political rights over there.”
“For Taiwanese people?”
“Not just limited to the Taiwanese, but anyone who has been stripped of their rights. It doesn’t matter who you are, all are welcome.
Hearing this kind of fervent talk did well to my sinking heart. I turned my ear toward them and listened best I could.
“Well I imagine it was mostly Taiwanese then. They are the more class conscious ones after all.” The Japanese man said.
“It’s not like that at all. Some people just think the Japanese are troublemakers. They hate them, but they prefer to just avoid them.” The Taiwanese man responded.
“No way!” The Japanese man did not hide his disappointment.
“It’s worse than that. Some people believe the puppet government here really has the power to make our lives better. They think we should not even demand anything. Demanding hinders progress. Protesting loses the government’s favor. They might lose whatever rights or privileges they have. They might even know that by not participating, they are turning their backs on the people, which foments hatred. But they prefer the curses of the masses to the boot of the government.”
“Are farmers and people in the smaller cities like this too?”
“In many ways, it’s the same. The people there have suffered a long time, and there is something bubbling just beneath the surface. Officials of the provincial government went and listened to their stories of hardship, which made the people think they were going to fight on their behalf. After all, the masses…their class consciousness is quite low. They don’t understand anything about politics. All they want is to be left alone, given a little freedom. The provincial government wins a lot by doing very little out there. All it requires is taking the foot of their neck a little bit, and the people will be happy.”
“Well if that’s the case, they might be our best fighters. They can stand with the party at their back.”
“I don’t think you get it. The core of the party over there is made up of exchange students from Japan. They have a bourgeois background. They’re not fighters, they’re just caught up in the trends of the time. It’s unclear whether they will actually wake up, but in their hearts they would rather occasionally give a speech than really engage in class war.”
The men finished their conversation and the train screeched ahead. I had to transfer at the next stop and there was a loud ruckus as we squeezed off the train.
I ducked into the small station house where I ran into a comrade. He had been sitting in business class and I had an economy ticket. We exchanged a few words then boarded at our respective doors. Back in economy, every seat was taken by members of the working class, not a single member of the intelligentsia.
I was overcome with despair. I leaned against the window and tried to sleep, but couldn’t since I just kept replaying the conversation I had overheard. Then, just as my eyelids began to droop, another conversation prickled my ear, and my eyes shot open.
“Everywhere I turn it’s more problems. I’m fucking sick this shit!”
“How many jia 2 do you have?”
“About 1.4 jia, which I’ve been tilling for the last three years. This year I hope I actually get some crops from it.
“Have you asked around for help? I’m sure there is someone you can turn to. I hear the Farmer’s Association will send people to help.”
”It’s no use. Nothing will help. Plus, I hear they are pretty flaky.”
“Shouldn’t you at least try?”
“Yichuang’s wife runs the whole thing. And she is so pushy!
“You can request a stipend from them, just until you start turning a profit.”
“That’s easy for you to say! They’ll keep years’ worth of supplies as collateral.”
“That doesn’t seem right. Can you involve the courts?”
“And who do you think runs the courts? Yichuang does!”
“So you’re saying we’re just dogs? We work like dogs, and even eat like dogs, no one, not even Yichuang is gonna help us?”
“Blasting through mountains brings endless suffering and tilling fields is about the same.”
“How about you go ask the Cultural Association?”
Usually I can just tune out others when I am asleep, but I could not stand the drivel these two were spewing. And if I wasn’t already fully awake, the name of the Cultural Association certainly woke me up.
“Really? The Cultural Association? Those guys might try their best, but nothing good will come of it.”
“I’ve heard them talking about working for Taiwanese prosperity.”
“And you like what you hear?”
“Well today I heard that they’re hosting a meeting in WuFeng.”
“Oh you mean Ah Chao Wu. 3 If it weren’t all just owned by one family, maybe there would be more for the rest of us.”
“…prosperity for all of Taiwan is a bit much, maybe just ease the hardship of the tenant farmers.
“Budda deliver me 1.6 jia of good farming and a healthy winter. Forget the hundreds of poems about harvest. If you owe a stone or you’re short a pound, best not talk about it.”
I understood some of their conversation, but didn’t get a lot, and it added even more to my shame. I felt bored. I had been sitting too long. I stuck my head out the window and felt the wild breeze blow over me. I saw the station house approach.
I was beckoned into the meeting room. The meeting had already been going on for a long time. They were discussing the education of the masses: reading groups, research institutes. Their opinions droned on one after another. I had served in one of these institutes before and, feeling like I had some experience, asked for the floor and stood up.
“With regard to our movement, not only do they oppress us and interfere with our work at every possible moment, and if their laws are not restrictive enough, they create new ones to shackle us in place. From my point of view, though our work obviously falls outside of their leadership, we must at the very least acknowledge that the program of expanding Japanese literacy is absolutely necessary. We must fully pursue this program. Which means that we must go among the people, do the work, and under the appearance of this literacy program, we can implement our own programs as well.”
“Chariman!” someone yelled out in protest, standing up, “We cannot accept this kind of talk. We are not this base and vile. We will continue to advocate for speaking Chinese– for speaking Taiwanese!– and for genuine service of the people
The sound of the applause which followed was deafening, the majority sided against me definite. A resolution to promote the expansion of Chinese was passed. Then a resolution to end the meeting.
Today’s meeting was evidence that there are two factions: one sees socialism as a science and advocates for achieving rights before settling questions, and the other takes the masses’ current class consciousness as its evidence, with the aim of uniting with them where they are at. My resolution had failed.
The chairman announced the end of the meeting. Half of the day was still left. I strolled through a well known park and, inspired by the scenery around me, composed this poem:
Recorded in history but not yet famous, plucking a plump red plum
A mountain stream beckons me, inviting me to blossom with itSee the hearts of the moral, primordial faith made to falter by this world
Play the main character, and end up laughing like Old Lao
The poet grieves easily, scattering sorrows among the fields
Some will grow to powerful oaks, the rest burned with the chaff