Essay: Fantasies of Freedom

Wha

t struck me most about the four farmers who showed up at TIME's Beijing bureau back in 2001 was that they were wearing new shirts. With callused hands and dirt under their fingernails, these men were trying to blend in with the well-dressed crowds in China's capital. But one look and you could tell they were poor peasants in unfamiliar city clothes. Their shirts all had identical shirt-box creases. One peasant, an apple grower named Liang Yumin, tugged at his neck throughout our conversation, fingering the piece of cardboard still tucked under his collar.

I had met these men a few weeks earlier while reporting a story about flawed village elections in China. Beijing had been touting the success of grassroots democracy, and former U.S. President Jimmy Carter had lauded the balloting. But many of the polls didn't result in true change. In Qixia, the area in eastern China's Shandong province from where my visitors hailed, 57 village chiefs were elected in 1999; local Communist Party secretaries refused to hand over power, however. After spending two years locked out of their own offices, the 57 quit en masse. Soon after, a Qixia official told TIME the situation was "completely resolved."

Still, about 20 of the 57 were determined to expose the sham of democracy in Qixia. They began investigating alleged corruption, assembling evidence they say proved that local money was being used to fund lavish lifestyles for the Party headmen. Shortly after, around a dozen village chiefs were savagely assaulted. Others had their homes demolished and crops destroyed.

In May 2001, TIME published my article about democracy denied in Qixia. A few weeks later, the four Qixia village chiefs showed up at our Beijing bureau while I was out. "There are some peasants to see you," an alarmed assistant informed me. "They seem quite scared. You'd better come back quickly." Clutching mugs of tea in their shaking hands, the villagers updated me on some of the people I had interviewed: three had been brutally beaten, they said, and two were under house arrest; a third—Sun Xuede, who had been elected with 85% of the vote—had disappeared. The four men were in Beijing to petition the central government for help. But their journey proved ill-fated. Police from Qixia intercepted them at the petitions office a few days later and forced them home. Back in Qixia, two were jailed for 38 days. In December 2001, Sun was sentenced to eight years in jail for breaking into a government office and embezzling public funds. He disputes the charges; the office he supposedly burglarized was, he says, his own.

Over the years, the Qixia village chiefs served as my China reality check. Compared with the days when foreign journalists had to smuggle in ground coffee in their suitcases, my life in China was positively luxurious: I sipped lattes at Starbucks and collected tips on where to buy the best pesto in Shanghai. But every few months, the Qixia men would call with an update, reminding me of some of the grim realities beyond China's cafés and marble-lined lobbies. Two more village chiefs have been beaten up, they would tell me, one so badly that his arm dangles like a piece of string.

The Qixia men usually bought disposable SIM cards to prevent their numbers from being traced. Often, they would be in mid-sentence when a card ran out, and I would sometimes wait months before they saved up the money—and courage—to tell me more. Two years ago, I got a call while at a cocktail party. Shanghai ladies sipped champagne near me, while men discussed the city's frenzied property market. This time, the news from Qixia was good: Sun had been released from jail early. "Hello, English-language journalist," he said. "I am out of jail now." I told him I was very glad—and then didn't know what else to say. Filling the silence, Sun commented on the weather in his village. It was chilly, he said, but not as cold as it had been in prison.

A few weeks ago, the Qixia men contacted me again. Liang Yumin, the villager who had neglected to remove the cardboard from his collar six years ago, had committed suicide. Over the years, Liang had been jailed and beaten. Any time he needed help from a government bureau, he faced obstruction. Liang told a friend that he wished he had never run for office. He cursed himself for having been popular enough to win. With no end to the mistreatment in sight, Liang told one friend he was considering drastic measures. On Nov. 25, he killed himself by swallowing pills.

As Yu Baozhong, the farmer whose arm was crippled, told me of Liang's suicide, I wondered aloud if speaking to me would only bring more trouble. Yu had already been jailed once after I met with him. But he continued talking. "I tell you, English-language journalist," he said, "I cannot accept what they have done to us. Even if it takes 10 years or 20 years, I will keep fighting."