Whenever I hear students talk about their future — their hopes, their wishes — two students I once met in 1989, for just a few minutes, come to memory. They're perched on a railing, white shirts, black trousers, and rather shy.
A few hours after I chatted to them, they would have been faced with an army, a hail of bullets and tanks, grinding towards them. Beijing's Tiananmen Square was about to become a place synonymous with bloodshed.
Trying to describe a momentous event, a journalist is confined to your own eye-witness experience. Later, you learn more about the origins, the details, the other versions of the story. A reporter's 'first draft of history' is necessarily cursory, an all-too-brief string of reports. It is inevitably peppered with your own reaction to what is in front of you. Even so, on reflection, it is that initial encounter which shapes your thoughts later.
For me, earlier that year, working as a TV Correspondent for the BBC, the initial events in Beijing were just another foreign story on screen, reported by the staff based in the Far East. It was an eventful period, and I'd been covering the Russian war in Afghanistan, the Hillsborough stadium football disaster in Sheffield, trouble with Colonel Ghaddafi in Libya and a five-day, six-nation visit to Africa by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.
Beijing had begun to appear in the TV news bulletins in April. A difficult country to cover as a journalist, even for the seasoned 'China watchers', regardless of language problems. Run by the top officials in the Communist Party, secretive and inaccessible by western standards, opaque in public pronouncements, and in living memory with a history as troubled and violent as any nation. Its older citizens could recall invasion and civil war, its younger the horrors of Chairman Mao's Cultural Revolution and the Great Famine in which 40 million people died: four years of hell (1958-62), described by Mao as merely 'a period of scarcity'. The 'Great Helmsman' was now dead, though still presiding eerily, preserved, in a huge mausoleum on the edge of Tiananmen Square in the capital, Beijing.
The news bulletins in early 1989 showed Tiananmen Square, the heart of Beijing, thronged with young people. A cold, forbidding heart, perfect for vast displays of military power or mass displays of adulation for the Party and its leaders, it reinforces the ant-like feeling of the individual. To walk across it is a weird experience, but one treasured by many Chinese. It is the focus of pride, a special place, where the vastness of the country and the power of the Communist Party can be felt in an immense and bleak stretch of concrete.
Even though traffic swirls at its edges, and families stroll and rural Chinese gawp in wonder, it has always been a tightly-controlled space. In 1989, with the country gradually emerging from the extremes of Mao's rule, and the economy being encouraged to grow as a result of Deng Xiaoping's economic reforms a decade earlier, the tourists were arriving. There was a sense that the country might be altering course. There was innovation, a cautious opening-up to the rest of the world, and very few people were still dressed in the uniform Mao suits and drab colours.
The other great Communist power, the Soviet Union, was also shifting politically. In the mid-1980s, Mikhail Gorbachev was embarking on root-and-branch reform of the entire Soviet system. Perestroika (economic reform) and glasnost (transparency) were the buzzwords, and there was dialogue with western countries about nuclear arms treaties.
Even so, the Chinese were ultra-cautious. 'Class Struggle' might be officially going out of fashion, and 'socialism with Chinese characteristics' promoted alongside major economic reform, but political change was not on the cards. And although writers and artists had initially been encouraged to engage in a more critical approach, this did not extend to openly sniping at the Communist Party.
[Hu Yao Bang's] death had become a pivotal moment for those wanting to protest
As the '80s began, there had already been signs that social problems — corruption, unemployment and unwarranted privilege for Party members — were growing. The complaints became public and wall posters appeared, the conventional sign of protest; and the word 'democracy' was occasionally used in debate. Students were prominent in such activity. Argument, tension between hard-line Communists and economic reformers, and some modest social changes continued throughout the decade, with more protests involving students in 1986. But the power of the Party remained supreme.
In April 1989 the champion of the reform programme died. Hu Yao Bang was widely mourned, especially by the intellectuals and liberals who had hoped his position as a member of the all-powerful Politburo would influence his conservative, and mostly geriatric, colleagues.
Although officially he'd been semi-retired for his 'mistakes' in pursuing progress, the Party gave him a state funeral attended by senior officials. However, the Party had not foreseen a 10-mile queue of members of the public wishing to attend. Demands were made that Hu's reputation be reinstated, that another ceremony should be held. His death had become a pivotal moment for those wanting to protest. Students, in their thousands, headed for Tiananmen Square. And camped there.
For those of us in the West, the TV pictures and press reports initially raised curiosity. Protest in China was not unknown, but rare. Understanding what was going on was a challenge. The thoughts and political manoeuvres of the ruling, and ageing, clique that took decisions and manoeuvred for power were behind firmly-closed doors. However, large gatherings in China were invariably official and well under the control of the Party. This was not.
Students came in their thousands, with banners from more than 40 universities — huge institutions — painted with slogans. And they stayed, day after day. Lively, but well-behaved, determined but non-threatening, they nevertheless represented the kind of unwelcome challenge to the 'order' so beloved of the authorities. Such a gathering began to attract the foreign press.
The weather was turning pleasant. The students set up tents and went to work — discussing, arguing, writing out slogans and demands on huge posters. They wanted the state to be more accountable. They railed against the corruption to be found at all levels. They wanted less official interference in their own lives — where the state frequently decided what they should study, and what jobs they would be 'directed to'. There was talk of democracy, but in a Chinese context, not with revolutionary fervour. It was the unfairness of the system, its rigidity, the slow pace of change that they resented.
All of it was very unlike my own experience of the 'student demo' in the '60s, having marched behind banners in both Britain and Germany. The demo was usually noisy, mildly unruly, and not entirely intellectual in its approach. It occasionally ended in confrontation with the police — mainly because of obstructing traffic — with a few bruises and a sense that we'd made our point. Our demands were myriad, we were the 1960s generation which fervently wanted to slough off post-war drabness and conformity. We had parents who had endured a World War, but we fretted that their conventions and morality hadn't changed much since the 1930s. We were young, optimistic, and we were without foreboding or fear, having no doubts about our right to demonstrate peacefully.
The events in Tiananmen Square were different in many respects. The overall demeanour of the students was earnest, thoughtful, intellectually focussed. For all the excitement of being together in common cause, the atmosphere was that of a massive seminar, with young people debating in somewhat chaotic surroundings. Food was a major preoccupation: boxes of noodles and bags of buns were everywhere. However, at the end of the day, squads of students corralled the heaps of newspapers and rubbish and took them away. Marching around or chanting slogans seemed out of the question. Instead, passionate debate and critical discussion occupied much of the time.
The old men in power seemed uncertain about what to do — not that such sentiment was voiced or appeared in the media. An onlooker, and the Chinese public, could only guess at political manoeuvrings.
The Soviet delegation was stunned by the scale of the protest
As the days went by, thousands more joined. The huge square was heaving, a carnival-like scene, but with serious purpose. Enthusiasm ebbed and flowed during the next few weeks. The much-heralded visit of Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev was approaching. The first Sino-Soviet summit since the 1950s. It was axiomatic that any visit would include some kind of ceremony in Tiananmen Square.
The students prepared 'Welcome' posters, assuming that the reformist Gorbachev would appreciate their activities. The Chinese Politburo found itself having to re-jig the entire visit to enable avoidance of the Square. The embarrassment was huge, with international headlines and TV pictures rubbing salt in the wound. The Soviet delegation was stunned by the scale of the protest. Gorbachev was later to have been heard to comment 'I do not want Red Square to look like Tiananmen Square.'
Several students had begun hunger strikes and volunteer medical workers could be seen hovering around tents. The specific aim now was to secure dialogue with the government, to protest against the government's indifference, insisted the students. Pictures of fainting students, ambulances criss-crossing the square, and pale young people lying in tents being fanned by anxious friends went out across the world.
At one point it was estimated that around a million people might have gathered on some days. When the crowds thinned, students from the Central Academy of Fine Arts trundled in six carts bearing parts of a plaster figure. It was assembled and erected to be a Goddess of Democracy, intended not to resemble New York's Statue of Liberty, but to represent that a new era had begun, a 'consciousness of democracy awakened among the Chinese people'. Again, the imagery was irresistible to foreign journalists, piling pressure on the authorities unused to close scrutiny which branded them reactionary or remote.
Added to this, a discernible subtle shift in the make-up of the crowds may well have given the Politburo a sense that ordinary citizens might be wakening to the students' cause. Several workers' associations had brought banners, stated their solidarity with the students. Local citizens brought food and water. Peasants, elderly folk, medical staff could be seen among the tents. Stories of protest in other cities across the country began to circulate.
I went to the Square towards the end of May and wondered what might happen. Martial law had been declared, but hadn't changed the situation. The days were hot, there was rather more litter, and students were still arguing among themselves, unaware that tens of thousands of troops had been mobilised and were heading for Beijing. No one seemed fearful, only concerned that goals were not being achieved, that the government was still not listening.
Behind the scenes in the corridors of power, there was fierce argument — but nothing that was communicated to the outside world. We now know something of the internecine shenanigans of the Party: hardliners furious about the very presence of the students in the Square, reformists more concerned with the consequences of any ill-considered move against them; rumours in the Politburo of 'western plotters and organisers, reactionary elements and CIA agents' intending to incite the students to 'seize power'; the suggestion that 'coming down hard' was justified because 'the alternative' would be much worse.
But their overarching fear was of turmoil, the loss of order which is so central to their idea of government. Even so, the intention to clear the Square peacefully has to be seen alongside the readying of fully armed troops given permission to 'use any means' to do so.
On 2 June, small units of soldiers entered the city and in places were met by students hastily erecting barricades. Others were surrounded by ordinary citizens demanding that they leave the students alone. Several confrontations, shouting and arguments, were witnessed by the foreign press, but there was still no sense that anything major was imminent.
The next day passed in a prickle of worry with reports of more soldiers seen, but nothing that changed the general mood among the students.
I stayed on until most had bedded down under the weird orangey-glow of the lights across the square. It was still very warm, and I met two young students sitting on a railing near the edge, both dressed neatly, rather shy, and holding hands. They spoke good English, and were the children of academics. They giggled with embarrassment when I asked if they were girl- and boy-friend, asking in return if it was rude to hold hands in public in Britain. They started to chat about the reasons they had come to the demonstrations. They knew they were privileged because of their parents' profession; even so, they saw others, Party high-ups' children, always getting better results than anyone else in the exams, snaffling the best jobs on offer. Corruption was everywhere, they said.
They were nearing the end of their studies and dreaded what lay ahead: being deployed to work anywhere in the country at the behest of a system which gave them no choice whatsoever. 'Will you stay together?', I asked 'How?' they replied. There was a pause. 'Are students in Britain ordered to different cities to work?' We went on talking, they kept on emphasising how important the protests were. Things had to change, they wanted a different future.
I left at a quarter to midnight to head for our hotel, a quarter of a mile away, and only minutes after I arrived at the BBC's base, we heard the crackle of one of our American colleagues' radios: 'There's shooting, there's shooting at Fuxingmen.'
I knew it was no false alarm, and I headed out with the crew, camera and sound, found one of our reliable drivers outside and headed off around side roads around the back of the Forbidden City. The usually deserted streets were beginning to fill with people wandering out of their houses, calling to each other, pointing.
Leaving the car, we walked down a 'hutong' lane lined with traditional courtyard houses, leading to the main Chang An road, which runs from the edge of the city for 10 miles straight, to Tiananmen Square. There was thunderous noise and smoke rising in all directions. On Chang An, truck after truck was crawling past, with soldiers standing, rifles facing down our street.
we witnessed the systematic raking of fire at anyone on the streets
Still without making sense of what was occurring, hiding behind a tree, I managed to look along the main road. A huge military convoy was bearing down on us, but some vehicles had stopped and were on fire. Tiny figures in the distance could be seen dragging people away, possibly injured. Several bodies lay in the road. Bullets came from every truck that passed. Ordinary folk, drowsy with sleep, were coming out to see what on earth was going on, and being mown down. We were pulled into a little house, the TV still on, and across a low chair was a woman with a massive bullet exit wound in her stomach.
In those first few minutes, we witnessed the systematic raking of fire at anyone on the streets. And people were fighting back, but only with stones and bottles. In the next few hours, we paused several times just to listen to the sound of gunfire chattering across miles of the city. Death and injury occurred randomly and far from the square, one of the reasons that the number of casualties has been difficult to estimate precisely.
Subsequent reports described the Army opening fire as it started driving down Chang An, 10 miles away. Reports emerged later that the troops had been told that in the city there were 'foreign agitators fomenting a rebellion led by counter-revolutionary thugs'.
We were begged to use our car, and bundled a woman in, her brain partly shot away, driving erratically to a small local hospital. The scene that greeted us was pure horror, utter mayhem, with the floor running with blood. In 20 minutes, over 40 casualties arrived, all with bullet wounds. Elderly women, teenagers, children. No one knew what was happening. Except that two squat, burly men burst in and headed for us. The medical staff grabbed us, and shunted the men back. 'Police', shouted one of the doctors, 'they police!' The secret police were everywhere that night. Time and again, they spotted us filming, and made for us. Time after time, ordinary citizens and students shielded us, pushed us into doorways, hid us, fought off the police.
Trying to make our way towards the Square on foot, we found ourselves again facing the trucks at the end of the street. Either side of me, two local residents stared in disbelief. I turned to one — he'd gone. I glanced at the other, but both were lying crumpled, in two small heaps, blood beginning to ooze. Another sound drowned the trucks. Tanks. The buildings shook, the roar was terrifying. Vehicles were ablaze at a major intersection, bricks and stones littered the road. Charred corpses nearby.
Sometime after 3am we arrived near the edge of the square. There were hundreds of students, many of them staring in shock, unable to comprehend what was happening to them. Some were singing the 'Internationale'. Further into the square, hundreds more students were facing the troops lined up across one corner. Many would or could not accept that the soldiers were in deadly earnest. Having been taught throughout their schooldays that 'The Army loves the people', they could not grasp the enormity of the situation. While they stood and stared, rickshaws and small ambulances darted through, groups knelt under the trees trying to help the injured, gunfire went on relentlessly, across the city.
An hour later, we decided to ensure that the evidence we had gathered should be got to safety. I took the video cassette, and set off at a run across the corner of the square, when a sustained volley came from the other corner. Hundreds panicked and ran in all directions, bodies falling. I fell as a young man cannoned into me, propelled by the bullet that killed him.
That night we witnessed an army attack its own people, who were unarmed. Most were unsuspecting citizens, roused by the noise of gunfire, some killed outside, even in their own houses. Many students died, but the Army was careful not to spill too much blood in the Square. Tiananmen is special. The Army did its grim work in the rest of the city.
Over the next few days, there was sporadic violence, a massive army presence, and hospitals full of the injured, though now out-of-bounds to foreigners. The atmosphere was full of threat, shock and disbelief. The scale of resistance was obvious — burned-out military vehicles, corpses hanging from lampposts, and a lone young man, clutching a plastic carrier bag, walking out in front of a column of tanks and trying to talk to the driver. This was the image that went around the world, of an ordinary citizen facing the power of the old men of the Party.
There are many descriptions of what happened, and estimates of casualties. We witnessed nearly five hours of violence, and subsequently thought that well over 2,000 people died. More recent UK diplomatic evidence put the number at 10,500. A massacre.
The Chinese authorities today refer to the events in the summer of 1989 as the June 4 Incident. If they ever refer to it.
In the intervening years, the country has made enormous strides economically. Millions of people have prospered, huge cities have developed, and there are ambitious international ventures. However, such material progress is balanced against no major political reform. The Party is still all-powerful, public criticism and dissent is not encouraged, human rights are violated, and western democracy is dismissed as unsuitable for China.
With regard to Tiananmen Square, schoolchildren and students do not learn anything about the massacre. On the Internet, every search of the words is blocked. Those who continue to raise the subject, especially those who lost relatives then, are harassed and occasionally arrested. The square is subject to heavy security each year on the anniversary of the massacre. However, the evidence exists, our pictures are part of it. And June 1989 will have a place in Chinese history.
No one has found out what happened to 'Tank Man', the young man with the carrier bag who stopped a tank. And I have no knowledge of what happened to the two young people who had great hopes for the future, when I met them that night in Tiananmen Square.
