Hello all, I hope you have been well and I wish I could say the same for myself. I am refraining from being pessimistic in this moment but as it stands I do not feel too good. This has nothing to do with my health or the health of anyone in my family. Although we’re all physically well, what happened left me shocked and unable to process everything. Due to the sensitivity of this subject I won’t object if the mods deem it safer for the community to lock this post.

If you weren’t aware already I had mentioned a few days prior that I made a visit to Xinjiang’s capital Ürümqi to meet with some family members who have been residing there for some years now. We left on Sunday and took a six hour train ride to the capital, where I met my cousins who I hadn’t seen in around 5 years which was really nice.

Although my aunt and uncle don’t consider themselves political, they share the usual anti-colonial sentiments against the US and have more of an understanding of geopolitics than the average American does. but this time around was somewhat different to what I am used to. There seems to be a general uneasiness surrounding the genocide in Gaza, with many people here upset about a perceived lack of response from China. My aunt and cousins believe that China should have cut relations with Israel from the start, while I understood why China had to take a more pragmatic position. It wasn’t a debate at all, just a discussion, at least until the discussion took a sharp turn and their position became harder to accept.

They claimed that there are internment camps within Xinjiang and that a family friend has a family member who spent time in one. I objected immediately and put my foot down, telling them that this friend was obviously sharing propaganda they had either gathered online. Xinjiang is no doubt a target for the CIA and I assumed that they were either a fed or parroting fed talking points. My aunt told me how two of her friend’s sons were detained by police, with one of them still incarcerated and the other suffering from PTSD. All of this apparently happened because of some social media posts they made supporting Hamas and the Houthis.

My aunt then proposed that I should meet this family, as they didn’t live too far away from where we were staying. I accepted; the whole point of this trip, besides meeting my family and exploring Xinjiang, was to understand the culture. China is extremely diverse and this diversity isn’t explored in the western sphere due to the sinophobic nature and propaganda that westerners are bombarded with online. The west wants to paint us as drones, moving in rank and file, but obviously this is false. Like any other area in the world where diversity flourishes, you see that present in China, maybe moreso than other parts of the world that are celebrated for their diversity, like New York, for example.

It is also my goal as a leftist to try and understand the way people view the world and try to amend the “broken” parts as best as I can, not in a way that is intrusive or dismissive of their experience, but by maintaining respect and having a thorough discussion. Nobody is immune to propaganda, myself included. After dinner, I spoke to my partner about meeting the family. I felt bad about changing our plans abruptly but I felt like this was an important opportunity. They agreed that it was a good idea, so off we went.

During the train and bus ride, I found myself appreciating the reliable public transport as well as Xinjiang’s culture of maintaining bonds; tight-knit relationships are something the people of Xinjiang pride themselves on. This solidarity was reinvigorating to me as customs differ between Xinjiang and my home province. Again, if only people in the west understood the array of cultures that exist within China…

When we arrived at their apartment it was around eight in the evening. The woman who opened to door for us was the one my aunt spoke of. She held the door partially open which obscured half of her face in shadow. With tired eyes and a look of absence she didn’t say anything. Although she was expecting us, I had assumed maybe she forgot. I asked to come in and she absentmindedly said “One moment, forgive me, just a moment.” Although we didn’t mind waiting for however long she needed to prepare for guests, I felt like I was intruding on her peace coming here. At this point I felt like I had made the wrong choice coming here.

About a minute later she opened the door and let us in. We took our shoes off and she thanked us, offering to give us some slippers to wear. I wish my apartment looked as vibrant as hers did, elaborately designed carpets hung on the walls, the designs were spectacular and I was in a deep awe by them. I wanted to observe closer to get a better look at the carpets, but was interrupted by her invitation to wash my hands before dinner. I felt an immediate connection to her, almost like she was my own family. I understand now the ways of Xinjiang, the cultural collaboration between souls and how those bonds intertwine like the fabrics hanging on the walls, to make up a beauty that can’t be found anywhere else in the world. It was unique to this place.

Entering the kitchen to wash our hands, she walked in with us and opened the pot of rice she had been preparing. Before eating, she said “I apologize, I hope there is enough for us all.” I said she needn’t worry, letting her know that if there wasn’t enough food we would do without, but she objected sternly. “You must,” she said, as she removed the lid. She had made a rice dish named 抓饭 which translates to “grab rice” in English, as it is typically eaten with one’s hands. She guided to us to a small table and placed dishes in front of me and my partner, then bringing over the pot of rice from the kitchen. Mixing the rice with a metal spoon, she scraped the bottom of the pot. While serving us, she explained: “All the flavor rests at the bottom. The crunchiness also adds texture.”

We were both starving after only eating small snacks on the train so we were running low on calories, but I had faith that the dish and ensuing conversation would not only satisfy our hunger, ease our anxieties about what we had heard regarding the alleged open-air prisons. With each bite I felt more embraced by Xinjiang and its culture. Here I was, half an hour after initially worrying about imposing on her, now sitting and eating with her like family.

After finishing our meals, she brought in a teapot and served us a fragrant tea that I wish I had remembered to ask about. I assume it was a black tea but it had a similar aromatic profile to chai which confused me. She brought the porcelain cup to her nose and breathed in with her eyes closed. She held in a breath, and then let out a deep exhale. I recognized this as a form of releasing anxiety.

Opening her eyes and then staring into mine, she eased into herself and said “Your aunt told me you were wondering what happened to my sons.” I nodded, mentioning what she said about how her sons had experienced some hardships recently. She looked away and nodded. With a slight smile she looked at me and said “She also said you had your own opinions on the genocide.”

At that point I realized my aunt had communicated my skepticism to her. “I have my own opinion but I would like to hear what you have to tell me if you don’t mind.” Still staring at me, she asked, “What do you think happened to them?”

I told her that my assumptions were as follows: the son posted something online that they shouldn’t have, they got detained and were let go within the same month. After taking a sip of tea, the woman looked upwards for a moment and said “I would like you to listen to my story before passing judgement.”

A frown appeared on her face and she swallowed, trying her best to hold back tears. I refilled her tea cup and she nodded, thanking me. With both hands she turned the cup clockwise and then anticlockwise. With her gaze focused on the cup, she began to speak again.

“About a year ago they took my son and imprisoned him. Three men in police uniform came to the door and asked me ‘Where is (son’s name)?’ When I couldn’t answer, they let themselves in and searched my apartment, asking repeatedly where he was. I still couldn’t answer. They went upstairs, found (son’s name), and proceeded to pull him out of his room. He was in a state of panic but from his perspective he saw me with the men and so he cursed me and accused me of bringing them here. I couldn’t deny it. I think he still blames me to this day.”

A tear fell from her eye and left a mark next to her tea cup. I could see she was reliving this story as she was telling it. I wondered how many times she’s put herself through this. Was that the first time she recollected these repressed memories or was it a daily routine for her? I felt a deep pain in my chest and swallowed back tears.

“Even now I don’t think my son would acknowledge any sort of apology. He’s changed. Sometimes I hope he’s silent because all he has is hate in his heart for me. At least if this were the case, there would be some hope for him. That’s what I want, but part of me knows…” She swallowed but the tears were flowing anyway. “My son is gone.”

I apologized for her son’s condition but I also wanted to understand what exactly had occurred here. It was my assumption that maybe he was beaten in prison by another inmate so I asked her If this was the case. She shook her head, saying “He said the other inmates are the only thing that kept him going… He deteriorated over time. He wouldn’t say much at all; the only time he mentioned anything about his stay, he said that he had seen things, heard things.”

She looked over at my partner and smiled. “He was sat there, where you are now.” Her smile faded slowly, “He told me the guards kept him imprisoned, held for months without so much as an interrogation, in an obvious attempt to break his spirit. During his time there, he was forced to learn a prisoners’ code to communicate with anyone. They used Chinese Commercial Code spoken through a series of ‘yelps and stomps’. He got to know his neighbors and they formed a community through their secret language. They spoke of the happenings within the prison, why they were imprisoned, and who they were beforehand. He spoke of coded obituaries which the prisoners would do at midnight every night to remember those who had perished that day, and this is what broke him. Although it was a goodwill gesture out of respect, it was also a reminder of their mortality. There was one that stuck with him, the man referred to only as 7806 7185. He had apparently stood up to the guards, and not only a day later was taken from the facility and never heard from again.”

I have decided to cut a lot of things because a lot of it is sensitive and for the respect of the family and for my own safety, I would feel much better if I make a summary here. The reason the son was detained was because he had allegedly made comments online comparing the Uyghurs to Palestinians in Gaza. I didn’t want to believe this because it just sounds so surreal. I want to believe there’s more to this situation but these are the details that the mother had given me.

After the lengthy hours-long discussion with the mother it was approaching midnight and we didn’t want to take more of her time. The mother thanked us for coming and wanted to gift us a woven carpet that she had selected off the wall. I refused the offer but she insisted and after a back and forth of not wanting to accept the gift I felt it was rude to reject an act of goodwill so I accepted.

“I saw the way you observed this piece and I knew you would respect the craftsmanship.”

I wanted to cry but I held it in because this was one of the nicest things anyone had done for me. We spoke about gift for a while until we were interrupted by thumping coming from the son’s room. It was in a succession of three thumps with a second or two in between each thump. The mother rushed upstairs and asked her son through the door if everything was alright. There was no response, no sound of a door opening. She came down silently with a piece of folded paper in hand. With a blank look on her face she handed us the paper. Taking the piece of paper I unfolded it to reveal the characters “黄雪”. I could only hope that this was a good turn of events and it pained me to write this portion out, but I have to convince myself that writing this is necessary. There is no happy ending.

Hexbear’s character limit won’t let me post the end of this, so i’ve continued it in this thread